

+ A 6 ' 

A 4 ^ 

v a * 3 n ° 5 / v 

^ A A * / C« ’ '■' '= ^ A 

^ \ « *5 ~> V .- > / 


\ V *P ' ^ ' =» Cs A 

■$ % .AMA p ^ 

o ■/ o * * * A , <* ' 

^ , 0 * c° NC * <*L 

O W ■? ,-r^srv 




s s" A A 

' A X « V 1 B 4 ^ 0 

A . ^ X«y<^> "f 


'V '» * A * A c 

to r\ - 


* 8 I 


^ •< y O 0 ^ T ^ 

0> A A. 

■r 'TbAl 1 ^ * 

*\f 0 ' x*o ^ 

^V s s f /, O V *- 0 f 

s ✓ A r ^ * 

0 AA A*' 




' ••> ^ ^ -* . Y- 

O / „ . -*> .1 a' 

0 * ^ A n N G 

o o v C 0 ' « 

o G “ 


"o 0* 


O0' « 

J> » rfV ^ 

Js^v ,r % , ^ 

* o N 0 " \^ 1 * o ^ * 8 I \ " Js” 

V * ' > X <V S 




3 H// * v . 


* 

'«.> -s- .o s c 

* o. r 0 ‘ c */ V 

0> 0 * c-sr^j^v^, r - 

+ A K 

'bo x 


^ ^ * ft S \\ V 1 fi b 

<A. .•*,* v ° * 1 °0 

' ^ r An*':/'-' " ' J © 0 


o> %• 




' * * r\ 
N iV 


kV ^ + 

«} **u * 

ck ' •y y , \ * 

0 , V ^ s * 0 , ^ * ’ n 

*• ^ , V ,p A? * 

jX' * ^ ■: • / o A- iV 

<r • Me# * * f • / 



,S *1 


Kt v a M 0 \ 

Si v, ft ft / //. * ' 

r S „ fy C* V 


'f <* 0 



■°( 

» , . v ' .o 5 C 'o '» , s o ’* x # 

8 t ' S* . ft ft <■ ' //_ \ .’ 

0 *.-•'*, > ip- ^ r J'', c / . v .V, 

.\, . ■aW’a, r As. *. ^*. A v 

A> . A\W 5, ! V 





</> '\ 


" . v 1 % 



ifc' ^ ; 

■•. « 1 

X° °X. 


I I ' 


P I ■ _ ■» V, ft ft / *•>- 

<V s • ‘ // C‘ 

‘ <A " o " A/> ,< 















.Dzfe®tl 

THE HUSBAND-HUNTER; 

OR, 

' “DAS SCHIKSAL.” 

A TALE. 


CHAPTER I. 

Now westlin’ winds and slaughtering guns, 

Bring autumn’s pleasant weather; 

The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Among the blooming heather ; 

Now waving grain, wide o’er the plain, 

' Delights the weary farmer; 

And the moon shines bright, when I rove at night, 

To muse upon my charmer. 

Bun ns. 

It was late in the autumn of 1832 that a traveler 
slowly paced his horse through the glen of Lisnadinish, 
in the southern province of this wild, half-cultivated 
kingdom of Ireland. From his gentleman-like appear- 
ance and equipments, and the aristocratic blood which 
his noble steed displayed, as well as the easy rate at 
which he advanced, he bore no resemblance to the class 
of tourists yclept “ commercial travelers,” w r ho usually 
speed along “ summa diligentia that is, to borrow 
the translation of a college wit, on the top of a mail- 
coach, or diligence. Our hero, on the contrary, had 
none of the dapper, business-like air, which in general 
distinguishes that erratic and useful community ; his ap- 
pearance seemed to indicate the gentleman, traveling 
solely for his own proper gratification. A servant rode 
behind him, on a stout, well-built hackney. 

The southern verge of the road overhung, in many 
parts, a rugged and precipitous bank, at whose foot 


4 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


brawled a rapid sparkling mountain stream ; on the other 
side of which arose the broad shaggy breast of Lisnadi- 
nish hill, completely covered with dark purple heath. The 
road, on emerging from this noble gorge, gradually as- 
cended for upwards of two miles through a bleak, yet 
not uninteresting district ; until it reached the eminence 
which commands the rough valley of Glen Minnis. 

Here our traveler involuntarily paused, in admiration 
of the striking scene that was stretched before him. 
Trees there were none in the district, and the heathy 
covering of the hills betrayed no marks of the advancing 
season. In the centre of the vale stood the tall castel- 
lated tower of Glen Minnis : the yellow moss and lichen 
that covered its walls, gleamed warmly in the ray of the 
bright autumn sun. The appearance of the ruin invited 
the horseman, whose taste was somewhat antiquarian, to 
explore it. Deeming it improbable that either his horses 
or the servant partook of his passion for scenery, he in- 
dulged them in such rest and refreshment as were afford- 
ed by a whitewashed carman’s stage on the summit of 
the eminence, and proceeded alone on his ramble through 
the valley. 

He soon discovered that the castle, or fortalice, was 
much farther off than he had at first imagined ; and the 
distance was unexpectedly increased by the intervention 
of two brooks, much swoln from the recent rains, along 
the banks of which he was compelled to make a consid- 
erable detour , before he found the fords, whose step- 
ping stones enabled him to cross their angry streams in 
safety. These obstacles surmounted, he explored the 
ruined tower, and finding his curiosity excited by the 
picturesque mountain of Mullaugh, he crossed a marshy 
meadow at the trifling expense of wet feet, and ascend- 
ed its steep elevation. 

The ascent was toilsome enough, from the alternations 
of almost perpendicular rocks and slimy marshes which 
the eastern side of the mountain presented ; but our he- 
ro was young, athletic, and inured to active exercise. 
Having gained the summit, the view well repaid the 
labor of the ascent. To the west was indeed a noble 
prospect. The wide blue waters of the glorious bay of 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 5 

antry, their eastern verge still gleaming brightly in tiie 
^ening sun, while the western side was darkly shrouded 
• the shadow of the mountains, lay stretched at the 
stance of some miles from the hill on which he stood, 
though by a singular visual deception he could almost 
have imagined that they washed its base. He gazed at 
the gigantic mountain barrier that guards the bay from 
the western storms, and contains within its recesses the 
enchanting valley of GlengarrifF ; Hungarie Hill, with 
its broad, bare head ; Ghoul Mountain, with its narrow, 
splintered peak ; and all the bold eminences receding in 
disjointed ranks to the distant bay and river of Kenmare. 

As he stood on the wide heathy summit of Mullaugn, 
his attention was suddenly arrested by two white dogs, 
which gamboled at a little distance. One of them was 
a pointer; the other a diminutive and silky King Charles, 
only fit for a lady’s warm hearth-rug, so that his appear- 
ance in a scene so wild naturally excited some surprise, 
especially as both he and his larger companion seemed 
perfectly the masters of their own motions. The wide 
summit of the mountain was unbroken and unsheltered 
for a considerable extent, so that had the dogs been ac- 
companied by any human associate, our hero thought 
that he must certainly have seen him. 

The playful animals appeared anxious tp provoke a 
pursuit ; they suffered him to approach them so nearly 
that they were almost within his reach ; and as often as 
he extended his hand to caress them, the tantalizing 
creatures would utter a short, quick, playful bark, and 
scamper out of reach in a moment. 

This game of pursuit and escape was continued for 
some minutes, until it led our hero to the brink of a very 
small lake, whose black waves seemed astonishingly 
rough, considering the smallness of its extent and the 
calmness of the day. Here the dogs appeared suddenly 
to vanish, leaving their pursuer gaping in silent wonder- 
ment. In the spirit of idle frolic, he continued his search 
for the wayward animals along the banks of a larger lake, 
which lay within thirty paces of the other little sheet of 
water. The chase, however, was a vain one ; and our 
tourist began to remark that the sun was fast sinking be- 
1 * 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


6 

hind Ghoul Mountain, and that wholly unacquainted as 
he was with the locality, he had better lose no time in 
retracing his steps while light remained, to his quarters 
for the night in the lonely inn where he had left his ser- 
vant. 

While these reflections passed through his mind, he re- 
turned to the smaller lake, when incautiously advancing 
to the verge of the bank, he fell through a matted cano- 
py of heath and gorse into a little natural chasm in the 
ground, on the very brink of the lake, in which was a 
turf seat occupied by as strange a looking mortal as he 
ever had beheld. His person was spare, wiry, and mus- 
cular ; his legs, bare from the knee to the foot, were 
mottled red and blue, by the influence of air, fire, wind, 
and rain, to all which, the luckless shins had been alter- 
nately exposed from infancy upwards. His face was 
dark and swarthy ; its expression half sinister, half hu- 
morous. His dress was as singular as his person. It 
consisted of a high peaked hat, without a brim ; a blue 
jacket, with faded scarlet seams, and tarnished gold but- 
tons ; short breeches of strong pilot cloth, and a leather 
belt in which was stuck a broad, sharp knife. The two 
dogs which had baffled their pursuer, lay panting at the 
feet of this personage ; at his side was a large basket of 
provisions. He did not testify either surprise or alarm 
at our hero’s unceremonious entrance, but said in Irish, 
with the most philosophic calmness, 

“ That ’s a queer way you thought proper to come in, 
Sir. Now if I was you , I ’d rather walk in easy at the 
door of a house than jump down through the chimney.” 

“ Really, my friend,” replied the intruder, in the same 
language, “ I had not the slightest intention of making 
so abrupt an entrance — I thought I was standing on 
firm ground, and your treacherous furze gave way be- 
neath my feet.” 

“ And you nearly came down on my head,” replied 
the guardian of the provision basket. 

“ Sir, I did not mean to make so free with your head, 
I assure you.” 

“ You might have knocked my brains out,” said he of 
the mottled shins. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


7 


“ I protest,” said our hero, “ I should have been ex- 
ceedingly sorry had I done so.” 

“ But that would not have been the least satisfaction 
in life to me for the loss of my brains,” replied this sin- 
gular « genius, tapping his forehead ; “ and I ’ll engage 
you would have been picking them up for the sake of 
the lading that ’s in them, and glad to get them too. 
But since they had the luck to escape, and are still in 
my brainpan, what say you to a glass of grog ?” 

The traveler gratefully accepted the offer, for the heat 
of the day, and his pedestrian exertions, rendered the 
refreshment very acceptable. 

Suddenly two shots from a double-barreled gun were 
heard in quick succession. 

“ Well banged, ould Father Jack,” exclaimed Padhre, 
(the strangely dressed peasant,) “ I ’ll warrant there ’s a 
brace of grouse down, at any rate.” 

“ Father Jack ?” repeated the traveler, “ pray who is 
that ?” 

“ My master, Sir,” replied Padhre ; “ where did you 
come from at all at all, that you haven ’t heard of him 1” 

“ Heard of whom, my friend ? I do not know your 
master’s surname yet.” 

“ Father John O 1 Connor, Sir, parish priest of Lisna- 
dinish ; the best brother, the best friend, the best man, the 
best priest of a parish, and,” continued Padhre, ap- 
proaching the climax with increasing enthusiasm, “ bet- 
ter than all put together, the best sportsman in all Ire- 
land : and now, in arnest, did you never hear tell of 
him ?” 

“ No, indeed, 1 am ashamed to say.” 

“ Why then, ashamed you may well be ! are you 
Turk, Jew, or Connaughtman, never to have heard tell 
of ould Father John, the best friend of sowls , and the 
bitterest enemy of grouse and patricks — Pop ! there 
goes another bang at the grouse, I ’ll engage he ’ll have 
his game-bag full to-night.” 

“ Has he any sportsmen along with him V y 

“ Not a Christian,” answered Padhre, “ barring a cou- 
ple of foreigners — Englishers, they are, I think — one of 
them ’s a donny little crature, that would start at his sha- 


8 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


dow — got tired of walking before they got up to Cnocna- 
bruish — he ’s gone back to Tom Howlaghan’s cabin, the 
poor devil, to wait for his comrade and the priest — I 
never yet seen such a pair of uncivilized legs as he had — 
they would n ’t carry him five miles.” 

“ And are your legs civilized ?” demanded the travel- 
er, laughing at this estimate of civilization, and looking 
at Padhre’s uncouth, uncovered limbs. 

“Civilized? yeh ! to be sure and they are 1 These 
are the legs,” and he slapped his muscular thigh with an 
air of triumph ; “ these are the legs that would trot 
twenty miles without stopping to take breath. But the 
other Englisher, to give the devil his due, is a smart, 
supple chap enough, and wonderful handy at his gun.” 

“ What are the names of these Englishmen ?” 

“ Mordaunt, Sir — they’re brothers.” 

“The night is approaching, my good fellow,” said the 
traveler, “ and I am a stranger in this place : will you tell 
me the nearest way to Beamish’s inn, where I left my horse 
and servant ; I think I came a considerable round.” 

“ Your shortest way is by the ould castle of Glen Min- 
nis, and keep to the left up the little bohereen, and you ’ll 
pass both the streams at the stepping stones. — But, blu- 
ranagers ! don ’t go till father John and the Englisher 
come back — they must be here now in no time — and his 
reverence will give you a bed with all the pleasure in life, 
and keadh mhilef aultha*. You ’d be a fool, Sir, saving 
your presence, to put up with no great things of a bed at 
the Shebeen f, when his reverence will give you sheets as 
white as snow, and a welcome as large as a horse.” 

But our traveler felt scarcely inclined fo depend on 
the second-hand invitation of Padhre. whom he deemed 
a sort of crackbrained humorist ; and as the shades of 
night at length began to close around, he hastened down 
the mountain, in the hope of reaching the bohereen be- 
yond the castle with the aid of the remaining light. He 
was, however, mistaken, as his utmost exertions only 
brought him to the mountain’s base, exactly as the night 
set in. 


* Keadh mhile faultha — A hundred thousand welcomes.] 
| Shebeen — public-house. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


9 


The day had been warm, and the evening clear and 
fine ; but as he re-entered the large marshy meadow al- 
ready mentioned, black, ominous clouds quickly chased 
each other over the hill tops, large rain-drops fell at in- 
tervals, the wind began to rise, and in less than half an 
hour he found himself in the centre of the marshy plain, 
in total darkness, wholly unacquainted with the neighbor- 
hood, and exposed to a drenching hurricane of rain and 
! storm. This, indeed, was no formidable penalty for a sea- 
soned sportsman ; but his total ignorance of the locality 
rendered his situation extremely embarrassing. There 
was nothing, however, to be gained by remaining station- 
ary; so he walked quickly onward, although he knew 
not in what direction he was moving. 

At length he reached a tall crag at the foot of a moun- 
tain, and casting his eyes earnestly around, he could not 
discern the slightest spark of light in any quarter. Not 
a dog barked — not a sound was heard, save the howling 
of the wind, and the heavy patter of the rain. The moun- 
tain was a formidable barrier to any farther progress in 
that direction ; so he faced about, and again pursued his 
way across the marsh, until he suddenly plunged up to 
his middle in a slow, muddy stream, which soaked its 
oozy way through long sedgy grass and flaggers. Scram- 
bling from this Stygian pool, he found himself among low, 
ruined walls ; and advancing a few paces farther, he dis- 
cerned in the gloom the tall tower of Glen Minnis. Nev- 
er sailor entered harbor with more joy than he felt on en- 
tering this old, dark, ruined, fortalice : all it afforded, no 
doubt, was shelter; but shelter was extremely welcome 
upon such an occasion. 

Our hero was dripping wet, and, notwithstanding his 
constitutional strength, he soon began to experience a cold 
shivering ; the consequence, in part, perhaps, of his be- 
ing rather lightly clad. But ere many minutes had elaps- 
ed, his attention was diverted from the personal incon- 
venience he sustained, by the sound of voices approach- 
ing the building. They ceased ; and steps, as of several 
persons, were heard ascending the steep rocky bank to 
the door of the castle. They entered the apartment in 


10 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


which he had taken shelter ; and he presently became 
sensible that they ranged themselves along the wall against 
which he was leaning. Some moments of silence ensued. 
At length one of the party asked : 

“ What sort of looking fellow was that stranger?” 

“ Troth, a good-looking fellow enough — he had as 
keen a pair of black piercing eyes as ever I seen — eyes, 
now, that would run in at one end of you and out 
through the other.” 

“ A pair of piercers, truly. Had he much the ap- 
pearance of a gentleman !” 

“ A gentleman every inch, I ’ll go bail for him.” 

At this moment the querist, who stood next our hero, 
happened, in changing his posture, to become aware that 
he occupied a corner of the building. Instantly his 
shoulders were enclosed in a grasp of herculean strength, 
and a rough voice exclaimed : 

“ Who is lurking here ?” 

“ A traveler,” he answered, “ who entered this ruin 
to take shelter from the storm.” 

“ Then,” returned the voice, while the iron grasp was 
clutched still deeper in his shoulders, “ whoever you are, 
you shall pay dearly for this intrusion.” 

Our traveler struggled to release himself, but he was 
as a child in the powerful gripe of the Unknown. 

“Padhre,” he exclaimed in Irish, “ strike a light.” 

A ligiit was soon struck from a gun-flint in some tin- 
der ; a bit of gewsh , which lay in a corner of the ruin, 
was lighted, and disclosed the figure of a tall, patriarchal 
personage, with a long blue cloak, two gentlemen in 
shooting frocks, the eccentric and strangely dressed Pa- 
dhre, and a couple of boys, who carried game bags. 

“Oh!” exclaimed Padhre, recognising our hero, 
“ there’s the gentleman himself, your reverence ; — scold 
him now, as he well desarves, for cutting off in such a 
hurry before you came up.” 

“ Sir,” said the blue-cloaked personage, “ all waifs and 
strays appertain to the lord of the manor, and in that 
capacity I seize upon you. You shall spend the night 
with me. As soon as the rain subsides, you accompany 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


11 


me home, and I think you will do me the justice to say 
that I provided a better lodging for you than you did for 
yourself . 55 

The person addressed was at no loss to guess that his 
peremptory friend was “ Father John ; 55 he thanked him 
for his kindness, and frankly accepted his hospitality*. 

* This chapter, and one or two other portions of this work, have already been 
printed, with Mr. Moriarty’s permission, as detached descriptive sketches, in an 
Irish literary periodical, now extinct. The scenic descriptions are correct delin- 
eations of actual localities ; of which some of the real names have been retained. 



CHAPTER II. 


Who are you ?• 


Samuel Lover. 


“ May I beg to ask , 55 said father O’Connor, “ to whom 
I have the happiness of speaking V’ 

The traveler presented the priest with his card — “ Mr. 
O’Sullivan . 55 

“Mr. O’Sullivan ?’ 5 repeated O’Connor, “O’Sullivan 
Bear, or O’Sullivan Reagh ? or O’Sullivan Spaniah V * 

“To none of those families was he allied,” the travel- 
er replied ; “ his ancestors had long been settled in a 
distant part of the kingdom . 55 

“O’Sullivan Lyra, perhaps V’ inquired O’Connor. 

Mr. O’Sullivan bowed assent. 

“ Then, Sir, allow me to assure you, I feel particular- 
ly happy at the pleasure of knowing you ; I was extreme- 
ly intimate, for many years, with a very near relative of 
your’s — an uncle probably — who held a commission in 
the Austrian service.” 

“ I am equally happy to know you,” said O’Sullivan ; 
“ I have often heard my uncle mention'you in terms of 
the warmest affection.” 

“Poor fellow !” said O’Connor, “ requiescat in pace. 
But permit me — Mr. Mordaunt — Mr. Fitzroy Mordaunt 
—Mr. O’Sullivan . 55 


12 


THE HUSBAND-HUttTEfc. 


The gentlemen bowed. 

“ Padhre,” said O’Connor, “ look out at the night, and 
see if the storm is clearing off.” 

Padhre obeyed, and the English gentlemen, anxious, 1 
no doubt, to repair to more comfortable quarters, accom- 
panied Padhre to the door, to examine the state of the 
night. 

“ Are you long acquainted with the Mordaunts ?” ask- 
ed O’Sullivan. 

“ Not I — I never saw them till last week ; — they did 
not like the inn, so they beat up my quarters a few days 
since, with their writing boxes, portfolios, pencils, pal- 
lettes, and double-barreled- guns ; — they were quite made 
up for writing books, taking views, and knocking down 
grouse and partridge. So they graciously solicited my 
poor aid in both their literary and sporting capacities ; 
and you know it would not have given them a favorable 
impression of Irish hospitality and courtesy, to refuse 
their request. I accordingly escorted them to Mullaugh, 
Oulteen, Cnocnabruish, Wheeough, and all our eupho- 
nious hills and eminences.” 

At this moment the Englishmen and Padhre re-enter- 
ed, with a dismal account of the night. “ The rain is 
dreadfully heavy,” said the elder Mordaunt, “ it would 
be utterly impossible to return to your house at present.” 

“ Could we not procure good quarters in some neigh- 
boring farm-house?” suggested O’Sullivan. 

“Aye,” said Padhre, “in Bonaparte Hovvlaghan’s ca- 
bin.” 

“ Nonsense!” cried the priest, “ we are famously off 
where we are. The old castle is far better quarters than 
poor Bonaparte’s tenement, whose broken thatch admits 
the rain ; — this vault is dry enough for sportsmen, in all 
conscience.” 

Mr. Fitzroy Mordaunt did not seem to relish the pros- 
pect of spending the night in the ruin ; his thoughts 
turned anxiously towards his comfortable quarters at 
Dwyer’s-Gift (O’Connor’s cottage). 

“How far are we from Dwyer’s-Gift?” said he to 
Bonaparte Howlaghan, a wild-looking, athletic peasant, 
who had attended the shooting party during the day, and 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 13 

who now entered, dripping wet, with a large bundle un- 
der his cota-mhor. 

“ How far from Dwyer’s-Gift repeated Bonaparte, 
u why, let us see, your honor — it's six mountains off.” 

“ But pray how many miles ?” persisted the English- 
man. 

“ Ogh,” replied Bonaparte, throwing down his bundle 
on the floor, “ we knows nothing about miles in Glen 
Minnis. We always reckons distance by the rocks and 
the bogs. We say such or such a place is three rocks 
away, or haulf-a-dozen bogs, or six mountains off, or 
something of that sort. Miles ! J pon my conscience a 
man would be kicked that talked about miles in Glen 
Minnis, and it ’s very well for yous , a pair of foreign 
jantlemen, that you had the luck to ax a man of my edi- 
cation and jintility. Miles ! arrah sure we have neither 
miles nor milestones here, but the rocks and the moun- 
tains, which are Heaven’s own fingerposts and land- 
marks, planted by the hand of nathur.” 

After such a sublime declaration, Fitzroy Mordaunt 
did not feel much inclined to pursue his topographical 
inquiries. But he clasped his hands, as if in admiration, 
and exclaiming, “ Poetry ! rude poetry, but genuine !” 
he proceeded to minute in a pocket-book the effusions 
of Bonaparte, whose shrewdness enabled him to guess 
that the English tourist was taking down his words, and 
who looked prodigiously important thereupon. When 
Fitzroy closed the book, he turned to O’Connor, and 
asked him if he liked poetry. 

“ No — certainly not,” replied the priest. 

“ No ? Are not you ashamed to confess your want of 
taste ?” 

“ Why, in fact,” said O’Connor, “ I do not think that 
any idea, or sentiment, or narrative, worth being preserv- 
ed, has ever been written in poetry, which might not 
have been much better expressed in unpretending prose. 
Poetry may do very well for a song, or a sonnet, or some 
. trifle of that sort — but for any lengthened production, 
j the unmerciful shackles of metre, or the constant clink 
of rhyme, always give me a headache.” 

“ Why, Sir,” replied Fitzroy, looking shocked, and 

VOL. i. 2 


14 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


contorting his brows into a fine expression of poetic ec- 
stacy ; “ there are some ideas so ethereal, so sublime, 
that you cannot possibly give them utterance in prose.” 

“ Then what is your definition of poetry ?” demanded 
O’Connor. 

“ Poetry, like wit,” replied the poet, “ is exceedingly 
hard to define — but I think 1 may say that every strong 
emotion, every overwhelming sensation, is poetry.” 

“ Then hunger is poetry,” said the priest, “ for it is a 
pretty overwhelming sensation — and I am a poet at pre- 
sent, for I wish I had my dinner.” 

“ Hunger is cursed bad poetry,” said Bonaparte ; 
“ I ’d rather have a pratee and salt herring than as much 
of that sort o’ poetry as ever you could give* me.” 

“ I wish we were snugly housed at Dwyer’s Gift,” said 
the elder Mordaunt. 

“ I wish so too,” echoed his brother, shivering, and 
looking perished. 

“Pooh ! we shall all do very well where we are, in a 
very few minutes,” said the priest ; “ Boney, where ? s 
the gevvsh ?” 

“ The boy ’s bringing it, your reverence,” answered 
the gigantic peasant. 

And presently a ragged urchin made his appearance, 
bearing a large bundle of gevvsh, or bogvvood, on his 
back, which in less than five minutes was ignited into a 
blazing mass of light and heat, that diffused its cheerful 
warmth through the ruinous old * vault. Bonaparte 
untied his bundle, containing some cloaks of comforta- 
ble frieze, which the sportsmen wrapped around them 
while they dried their garments at the gewsh fire : the 
clothes w r ere soon dried, and resumed by the party, who 
immediately turned their attention to the cravings of ap- 
petite, which the labors of the day had rendered pretty 
keen. 

Meanwhile the wind howled, the rain resembled a 
waterspout, intermingled with occasional volleys of hail- 
shot : as the storm raged without, the Mordaunts ap- 
peared to enjoy the increasing comforts of the vault ; 
and while Fitzroy became again busily engaged with his 
pocket-book, his wiser brother, and the priest, undertook 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


15 


to cook for the party. The game-bags were full, and 
the other provender was excellent and plentiful. Father 
John washed and dried the ^grouse. He produced his 
sporting stewpan, and placed on the bottom of it some 
slices of his own Glen Minnis bacon, half fat, half lean, 
the fat as transparent as mother-o 5 -pearl. Upon this 
foundation he deposited his grouse, breast upwards, 
sprinkled them with flour from his dredging box, threw 
in a few shredded shalots, along with three tablespoon- 
fuls of mushroom catsup, and half a tablespoonful of 
walnut catsup, he added a wineglassful of port, a pinch 
of red pepper, and some salt. Mordaunt eyed his pre- 
parations with manifest delight and admiration. 

“ Oh, Sir/’ said the priest, interpreting his looks, “ I 
am perfectly au fait , I assure you, in the sporting cui- 
sine.” 

Mordaunt, emulous of Father John’s skill, manufac- 
tured a brace of hares in glorious style ; he cooked away 
with his little apparatus in a manner which no novice 
could have imitated, and the two stewpans simmered, 
sputtered, and hissed upon the fire in merry rivalry. 

Bonaparte’s mouth watered, and his jaws expanded 
into a grin, at all this goodly whizzing and sputtering — 
at length his feelings found utterance. 

“ That ’s the real music !” he exclaimed , — e: hunger 
may be poethry, but give me the chirruping of the pot. 
— By gosh, Mr. Poet, my music is betther than your po- 
ethry.” 

Fitzroy felt angry at this uncouth familiarity ; but he 
shrank from exhibiting his displeasure, when he looked 
at the mighty bone and muscle, thew and sinew, of the 
colossal speaker. In truth a lurking expression of sub- 
dued ferocity about Boney’s eye, induced Fitzroy to court 
his good opinion ; for which purpose he commenced, 
while arranging some sketches in his little portfolio, a 
song about Daniel O’Connell, to the tune of Patrick’s 
Day in the Morning : — 

“ Come gather around, while I sing you the praises 
Of one who is dear to each Irish heart, 

O’Connell, whose native nobility raises 

Qne light in our land, though all else depart-” 


16 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER, 


He continued to mince out two or three verses, and 
then stopped, from failure of memory. “ Ogh,” exclaim- 
ed Howlaghan, “ your cramped English throat was niver 
made for Irish music — yout can’t drive out the keol*, 
in the slashing, dashing, tearaway, burn-the-world style 
that a song about Daniel O’Connell ought to be drove 
out ;” and forthwith Boney proceeded to exemplify his 
lesson with a stentorian strength of lungs that astonished 
his auditors. The musician seemed strongly excited by 
the spirit of his melody, for towards the close of his song 
he assumed an attitude of bold defiance, and menacingly 
shook a huge oak stick, which was loaded at the end with 
a knob of lead. 

“ Come, come, Boney,” said Father John, laughing, 
“ you must not shake Bam gaun Saggart at us — I nev- 
er like to see you wheeling it about ; it looks as if mis- 
chief was brewing.” 

Fitzroy Mordaunt, struck with the formidable appear- 
ance of the weapon, inquired its name and use, with the 
purpose of transferring to his book a drawing and de- 
scription of it, “ under the head of Irish weapons .” 

“ Pray, Mr. Awlegan,” said he to Boney, “ what is the 
use of your large stick, may I ask ?” 

“To thrash rapscallions wid,and smash their skulls 1” 
roared out the giant Boney — (I should rather say the 
Boney giant) — and he spoke with the zest of an Ideal 
slaughtering match. 

“ Bless me !” ejaculated the soft voice of the little En- 
glishman, “ what a formidable purpose ! Now, ow do 
you use this heavy stick, Mr. Awlegan ? I can ardly 
lift it.” 

“This way!” shouted Boney, whirling the stick a 
dozen times round the querist’s head, with such force as 
to whirr through the air like a whole covey of partridges 
rising. Fitzroy’s terror was excessively diverting. He 
crouched and cowered, and at last exclaimed, — “ I re- 
quest you may not smash my skull, Mr. Awlegan.” 

“ Niver fear,” responded Boney, flinging down the 
stick ; “ I only thought you ’d like a thrifle of instruc- 
tion, my boy.” 


* Music. 


TTEfH HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


17 


“ Oh, thank you, Mr. Awlegan — I ’m sure I am much 
obliged — much obliged, indeed. What do you call the 
weapon, Mr. Awlegan ?” 

“ Is it the stick ?” answered Boney ; “ why I calls it 
“ Bans gaun Soggarth” (with a most ferocious expres- 
sion and attitude), “ which means, d ’ye see, death with- 
out clargy.” 

“ Death without clergy l” exclaimed Fitzroy ; “ bless 
me, very characteristic — very ferocious, I meant to say. 
May I ask you, Mr. Awlegan, to repeat its Irish name 
once more V 5 * 

“ The throuble r s a pleasure/ 7 said Boney, exceedingly 
gratified dt the interest excited by his implement of war. 
“ Baus gaun Soggarth, Sir, is the name of him.” 

“ Bosken sogga ! bless me ! Thank you, Mr. Awle- 
gan ;” and down went a drawing of the stick into the 
book, and the formidable name, as well as the writer was 
able to catch it. 

The cooks had now completed their culinary labors, 
and Padhre proceeded to spread a cloth on a table which 
had been brought from Bonaparte’s dwelling. The ta- 
ble had improved by the transit, for the heavy rain had 
washed it clean ; a purification which, in all probability, 
was of rather rare occurrence. 

“Come, gentlemen,” said Father John, “ take your 
seats.” The party accordingly seated themselves on 
gewsh logs round the table, and the priest said grace. 

“Ah, my defunct flutterer,” said Father John, apos- 
trophizing a grouse which he carved, “ to my taste you 
look far more picturesque en grillade, than when you 
were winging it to day over Wheeough mountain.” 

“ How do you pronounce tfie name of that moun- 
tain ?” asked Fitzroy. 

“ Wheeough,” replied O’Connor, with a strong gut- 
tural accent. 

“ Wee-aw, Wee-aw — Is that it V y said Fitzroy. 

“ No — not half guttural enough.” 

“ I ’ll tache you, Sir, if you plase,” interposed Boney, 
who stood behind Fitzroy’s seat ; “just whistle, as if you 
were calling in your black setting spaniel bitch.” 

Fitzroy took Boney’s advice ; and the effort thus made 
2 * 


18 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


afforded him more practical instruction in bringing the 
aspirate into operation, than his own obtuser genius 
would ever have devised. 

Dinner now occupied the sole attention of priest, poet, 
traveler, and sportsman ; and conversation was suspend- 
ed by the eager assiduity with which they assailed the 
good things that smoked before them. All was quies- 
cent for several minutes, when suddenly the report of a 
gun was heard outside the castle walls, and a ball, which 
entered at a loophole, whistled over the heads of the 
party. 

“ Heaven defend us !” exclaimed Fitzroy Mordaunt, 
starting up, “ we shall all be murdered.’ 5 

“ Pooh, never mind it, 5 ’ said Father O’Connor ; “ it ’s 
nothing in life but a little rebellion, may be, or some 
such thing. Finish your sherry, man ! I ’ll engage that 
wild wag, Boney, fired the shot just to help your digestion ; 
it’s twice as good, a start like that, as one of Hunt’s 
dinner pills.” 

As O’Connor spoke, Boney, who had gone out a few 
minutes before, walked into the apartment, and picking 
up an object which lay on the floor near the wall, exhi- 
bited a starling, which the lights and bustle had fright- 
ened from its nest in the wall, and which Boney had shot 
through the loophole. 

“Wasn’t that nate killing]” exclaimed Boney, tri- 
umphantly. “ I just whipped off his head with the ball, 
in two two’s. There’s a power of the cratures, Father 
John, fluttering hither and over about the old castle ; for 
the boys have lit splinthers above, and the birds are bo- 
thered entirely with the lights.” 

This pacific explanation of the shot, which had terri- 
fied Fitzroy to such a ludicrous degree, seemed in some 
sort to restore him to tranquillity. 

“That’s a noble view,” said O’Sullivan, “ from the 
top of Mullaugh.” 

“ Indeed, yes ; it is one of the best scenes of wild 
grandeur in Ireland.” 

“ I think I saw a large house on a hill about four or 
five miles off?” 

“ Yes — that is Knockanea, Lord Ballyvallin’s place.” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


19 


“ Lord Bally vallin’s place?” repeated O’Sullivan, with 
rather an air of surprise. “ I had not an idea it was so 
near us.” 

“ Do you know Lord Bally vallin ?” 

“ A little ; I have met him in London.” 

“ You may, if you wish, have an early opportunity of 
renewing your acquaintance ; for Lady Bally vallin gives 
fancy ball, to which I have received a card, and have 
also been honored with permission to bring any friends 
1 pleased. The ball is an electioneering manoeuvre, to 
acquire popularity ; but persons of all parties will go, at- 
tracted by the rarity of the scene ; such a thing has never 
occurred in our wild district since the days of the deluge.” 

“Attractive, indeed,” said Fitzroy. 

“ Would you like to come ?” said O’Conner. “ I am 
certain that my privilege will include you both.” 

“We shall feel extremely happy,” said Mordaunt, 
“ if you think that our appearance will not be considered 
intrusive.” 

“ Oh, not in the least ; Lady Bally vallin likes crowds, 
and the rooms are immense ; I am sure she will think 
you quite an acquisition.” 

“ 1 may pick up some scenes for my book,” thought 
Fitzroy. 

“ Now I hope,” said O’Conner, “ that my going to 
this fancy ball may not be considered outrageously un- 
clerical. To frequent such assemblies in London or 
Dublin, is totally different from going, once in one’s life, 
to see fine folks make fools of themselves on the top of 
a wild hill in the country.” 

“ I hope,” said O’Sullivan, laughing, “ that the Bal- 
lyvallins will not regard your acceptance of their invita- 
tion as a pledge of political friendship, or neutrality ?” 

“ Pshaw !” cried O’Connor hastily, “ his lordship 
knows me of old ; he knows right well I will fight it out 
against his party to the death, when we meet upon the 
hustings.” 

The night wore away not unpleasantly, despite the 
desagremens of the ruined castle of Glen Minnis. When 
Mordaunt’s repeater told the hour of ten, the whole par- 
ty rose to look out upon the night. The storm had fal- 


20 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


Jen, the night was now dry, and the moon was rising 
over the hills. 

“ What a beautiful scene !” said O’Connor, as they 
stood on the grassy mound before the door of the castle. 

“ Down, Sir ! down ! down, Ponto ! down, Flora ! 
down the whole set of yees !” cried Padhre, endeavor- 
ing to get rid of the boisterous caresses of nearly a dozen 
dogs, who were exhibiting their glee in various gambols, 
at the prospect of returning home. 

“ This is a scene,” said O’Sullivan, “ that none but a 
sportsman can properly enjoy.” 

“ I believe you are right,” said the priest. 

“ How delightful,” continued O’Sullivan with energy, 
“ to stand on this patch of smooth green grass, on a 
clear frosty autumn night, after a good day’s sport, with 
your game-bags exceedingly plethoric, and your dear, 
faithful dogs barking and leaping in an ecstacy round 
you ! and the cold, clear moon sailing broad and round, 
high over the top of Mullaugh, and the rough, rocky 
fragments which lie scattered in the heath glancing 
white in the moonlight ; and the short, quick baying of 
the dogs echoing through the dark hills, which are rich 
with to-morrow’s sport — Oh ! it is rapture ineffable !” 

“Upon my word,” thought Fitzroy, “that’s rather 
prettily expressed — I ’ll transfer it to my book ;” and ac- 
cordingly he returned to the gewsh fire, by whose light 
he made an entry of O’Sullivan’s enthusiastic exclama- 
tion. He also recorded in his note book, that How- 
laghan acquired the soubriquet of Bonaparte, from his 
noted political zeal. 

“ Come, genteels,” said Bonaparte, leading up a horse, 
and followed by a boy who led two others, “ mount, and 
get home with yees.” 

O’Sullivan and Mordaunt mounted each a steed ; 
Fitzroy was placed on the crupper of O’Connor’s horse, 
and the troop sped merrily away, over hill and dale, 
until they arrived at the hospitable cottage of “ Dwyers 
Gift.” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


21 


CHAPTER III. 

Ah ! whiiher now are fled, 

Those dreams of greatness, those unsolid hopes 
Of happiness ? those longings after fame? 

Those restless cares ? those busy bustling days ? 

Those gay-spent, festive nights ? Thomson. 

There were other persons in whom the approaching 
festivity at Knockanea excited some anxious palpitations. 

“ If my wishes were attended to,” said Mrs. Henry 
Kavanagh, widow of the younger brother of a gentle- 
man of ancient family, “ if my wishes were attended to, 
Isabella should not go to the ball to-night.” 

“ What are your objections ?” asked her brother-in- 
law, Mr. Kavanagh. 

“ Oh, I am sure some shocking accident will happen ; 
the nights are dark, a new avenue has been opened, 1 
hear, through the park — Lord Bally vallin always sends 
off his visitors’ servants to the village, where John will 
in all probability get drunk ; so that even if we had the 
advantages of moonlight, and a road that one knew, we 
should still run the risk of being upset in the dykes.” 

“Well, sister,” replied Kavanagh calmly, “you need 
not go, you know, if you do not like it.” " 'W, 

“ What ! after accepting the invitation ]” 

“Well, you need not have accepted it.” 

“ But that ’s too late to think of now — I would not 
have accepted it only for you.” 

“ Only for me ?” 

“ And I do declare I am seriously alarmed.” . 

The fair alarmist had an inveterate propensity to affect 
opposition to any family plans which she secretly wished 
to take effect ; in order, that if their completion were 
attended with any unpleasant occurrence, she might 
refer to her prophetic objections in proof of her 
sagacity. On the present occasion, as was generally 
the case, she had suffered her daughter Isabella to 
overrule her opposition ; but her terrors returned with 
full force upon the night appointed for the ball. She 
expressed a thousand wishes that the ball had never been 
thought of, and repeatedly regretted that she had not 


22 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


sent an apology. In vain did Isabella endeavor to allay 
her apprehensions ; Mrs. Kavanagh was resolved to be 
desperately frightened, and preserved her resolution with 
the most unflinching pertinacity. 

“ I hope,” said Kavanagh, “ you may be upset.” 

“ How cruel ! thus to sport with my nervous appre- 
hensions !” 

“ No, really — but an economist of fear, such, as I am, 
cannot bear that so much excellent terror should abso- 
lutely go for nothing.” 

“ Well, but brother, don’t you remember hearing that 
Mr. Walton’s carriage was blown down the hill on which 
his house stands, while waiting for Mrs. Walton to go 
out to dinner ?” 

“ Certainly — and I would not by any means have you 
despair of being blown down the hill at Knockanea to- 
night.” 

“Oh, uncle,” interposed Isabella, who thought that 
his sarcasm annoyed her mother, “ that could not possi- 
bly happen, as the weather is perfectly calm.” 

This conversation was interrupted by the entrance of 
a Mrs. Curwen, who praised Lady Baliyvallin extrava- 
gantly. 

“ She is one of the most amiable beings in existence ! 
Poor thing, she was so vexed that I did not bring Flora 
to see her, as soon as she arrived at Knockanea. 
She reproached me so good naturedly, you havn ’t an 
idea.” 

“ Indeed !” said Mrs. Kavanagh. 

“And then this delightful fancy-ball — I can tell you, 
in confidence, that her ladyship gives it chiefly on Flora’s 
account.” 

“ Indeed !” said Mrs. Kavanagh. 

“ Yes — but I should not have consented to bring 
Flora, only that Lady Baliyvallin made it a very particu- 
lar request : for I had resolved that Flora’s first appear- 
ance should be made at court. However there was no 
refusing her ladyship, you know.” 

“ Indeed !” 

“To you , Mrs. Kavanagh, vyho have lived so much 
the life of a recluse, this fancy ball will afford a delight- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 23 

ful variety. As for me, I have seen every thing worth 
seeing, over and over.” 

“ You are fortunate.” 

“ My sister,” said Kavanagh, “ had just been express- 
ing her fears jest the darkness of the night, and the al- 
teration recently made in the approach to Knockanea, 
might occasion some accident.” 

“ O ! very likely,” replied Mrs. Curwen, “ young 
Welder’s horse stumbled over a heap of stones in the 
half-finished avenue on Monday night, and the poor fel- 
low’s collar bone was broken.” 

“ How shocking !” exclaimed Mrs. Kavanagh. “ Isa- 
bella, my love, this is really too frightful ! One would 
not for the world be impolite, of course — but our person- 
al safety supersedes every other consideration — I have 
made up my mind ; we cannot possibly go.” 

“ Yes,” said Kavanagh drily ; “ and I dare say when 
you are entering the carriage this evening, you will ex- 
claim the very moment you are seated and driving off to 
Knockanea, 4 1 have made up my mind ; we cannot pos- 
sibly go and your exclamations will probably continue 
until your arrival there.” 

“ But poor Welder!” said Mrs. Kavanagh, “ how is 
he ?” 

“ Rapidly recovering. I believe the w'orst part of his 
confinement, at least in his own estimation, is, that it 
suspends his attendance on the young ladies at Listrevor. 
He generally spends his time escorting them all day, on 
Arabella’s unfortunate grey horse. Really I wonder how 
the animal survives jt. The seven girls "have only one 
horse among them, and immediately after breakfast every 
morning, Arabella mounts her charger escorted by Wel- 
der on his poney, and rides to the mountains: she is 
succeeded in turn by Miss Evelina, and Miss Celestina, 
and Miss Cecilia, and all the other Misses.” 

“ What despicable gossip !” muttered Kavanagh, as 
he walked aw r ay to a window from his communicative 
visitor. 

“ Lady Ballyvallin and her three daughters will form 
an enchanting groupe to-night,” said Mrs. Curwen ; 
“ they personate Venus and the Graces. Her ladyship 


24 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


looks quite as young and as lovely as any of her daugh- 
ters.” 

“ I believe, Isabella, love, we must go,” said Mrs. 
Kavanagh. 

“ Oh, certainly, mamma.” 


CHAPTER IV. 


Up springs the dance along the lighted dome, 

Mix’d and evolved, a thousand various ways. 

Thomson. 

Mrs. Kavanagh forgot the tale of terrors with which 
she had prepared to meet Lady Ballyvallin, from the im- 
pression produced by the brilliant scene around. Her 
nervous horrors vanished, as she advanced through the 
splendid apartments, in which luxury and taste had pre- 
sided over all the arrangements. The softened lustre of 
the lamps ; the enchanting perfume which exhaled from 
fragrant plants ; the gay and varied colors of exotic flow- 
ers, transported Isabella, whose appearance unquestiona- 
bly justified her mother’s partiality, while her lovely and 
intelligent countenance displayed the animation of youth- 
ful enjoyment. 

Kavanagh observed that Lord Ballyvallin seemed en- 
gaged in earnest conversation with three gentlemen whom 
he did not know ; the groupe stood rather apart, from 
the rest of the company. 

“ Can you tell me,” said he to Father O’Connor, “ who 
those strangers are ?” 

“Yes — they all accompanied me here — a Mr. Mor- 
daunt and his brother ; and a gentleman whose family, 
at least, should not be totally strangers to you ; O’Sulli- 
van Lyra.” 

“Ah, I know — an excellent young fellow, as I have 
heard — long pedigree, short patrimony. He means, I 
believe, to go abroad.” 

“ I know nothing of his personal affairs ; he has been 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 25 

my guest for this week past, and I like him much from 
what I have seen of him.” 

“ I knew his father some twenty years ago ,” said Ka- 
vanagh. 

“ Look 1” exclaimed O’Connor, “ look at lawyer Lucas 
— only look at the devoted assiduities he pays Miss Isa- 
bella — he seems to have an excellent opinion of his own 
attractive powers.” 

Kavanagh regarded Mr. Lucas’s attention to his niece, 
with a smile at the self-complacent air of the legal swain. 
“ He will tease her,” said he, “ for a few minutes, and 
then she will contrive to get rid of him.” 

“ Has he any professional talent?” asked O’Connor* 

“ Lucas a non lucendo , I believe,” answered Kava- 
nagh ; “ I do not know that he has yet shown any. It is 
a sad mishap to be rather the cleverest member of a very 
dull family ; all the rest regard you as such a superlative 
genius, that your self-esteem is enormously inflated, which 
renders the self-confident puppy the more keenly alive to 
disappointment and contempt, when he finds his proper 
level in the world.” 

“ Lucas is not quite a blockhead though,” observed 
O’Connor. “ He is formal and pedantic, and was always 
deemed an oracle at home.” — At this moment the young 
lawyer’s father approached Kavanagh. 

“ Happy to see you, Mr. Kavanagh; one very rarely 
meets you on festive occasions.” 

“ Indeed, Lucas, such occasions are of very rare oc- 
currence in our part of the world.” 

“ Ay — that’s precisely what my son Jonathan says ; 
he invariably complains of the want of social feeling in 
this neighborhood ; he means to propose establishing a 
club, to bring the gentlemen more frequently together.” 

“ I doubt whether such a plan of artificial sociability 
would succeed ; if people do not visit each other of their 
own accord, the stimulus of a club will scarcely increase 
their general intercourse.” 

“ And that ’s what Jonathan says, too: he has doubts, 
though he thinks the thing worth trying ; I assure you, 
Mr. Kavanagh, my Jonathan always looks at both sides 
of a question ; he is cautious, extremely cautious.” 

VOL. i. 3 


26 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


Something led the conversation to snipe-shooting — a 
favorite subject with Father O’Connor. 

“ Some sportsmen were at Coola yesterday,” said Ka- 
vanagh ; “ 1 believe they were pretty successful. I had 
ordered the place to be preserved, but they met no op- 
position, as my gamekeeper was from home.” 

“ There ’s magnificent snipe-shooting at Coola,” said 
O’Connor eagerly ; “ the snipes get up in wisps — you 
need only shut your eyes and let fly — they rise in such 
crowds that you can ’t miss.” 

“ The sportsmen yesterday,” said Lucas apologetically, 
se were myself and my son Jonathan ; I trust Mr. Ka- 
vanagh had no objection.” 

“ Your son,” replied Kavanagh, “ is so seldom in the 
country that it would be very chuHish to deny him the 
pleasure of shooting on my grounds on his few and 
brief visits.” 

“ He ’s a first-rate shot,” said Lucas ; “ he always hits 
the swinging pigeon in the shooting gallery with a rifle 
ball at three hundred yards — there are few such shots.” 

Miss Jermyn, a rather superannuated belle, was at- 
tending to the saucy apology of Mrs. Denville, whose 
marriage had but recently raised her to a station that en- 
titled her to mingle with the gay and mazy throng at 
Knockanea. O’Connor, a shrewd observer of every- 
body’s foibles, felt some little anxiety to learn for what 
misdemeanor Mrs. Denville would condescend to apolo- 
gize to Miss Jermyn. 

“ The reason I delayed you so long when you called,” 
said Mrs. Denville, “ was because I was engaged in fix- 
ing my diamonds, which require considerable time to 
arrange.” 

“ When you are more accustomed to them,” retorted 
Miss Jermyn, “ their arrangement will occupy less time.” 

“ Do you know,” said Lucas to O’Connor, “ that poor 
Denville was obliged, shortly after his marriage, to sit 
up at night to watch his lady’s jewelry, until a safe 
place was constructed to store it in.” 

“ Who told you ?” asked O’Connor. 

“ My son Jonathan.” 

Kavanagh was accosted by a lady, who was 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


2t 


“ Clad in the sombre guise of widowed weeds,” 

while a face in which the decent sobriety of sorrow had 
given way to “ wreathed smiles’’ and “ witching glances,” 
surmounted the glopmy habiliments which custom ren- 
dered necessary, as the outward demonstrations of the 
fair widow’s regrets for her third husband. Piously re- 
solved not to suffer the torch of Hymen to expire in the 
ashes of the departed, she was, on disoit , indefatigable 
in her exertions to obtain a fourth. 

“ Mr. Kavanagh ! I did not see you till this moment ! 
where is our dear Isabella 1 I have been waiting to in- 
troduce Baron Leschen to her; he has remained at my 
side for an hour with exemplary patience, expecting her 
appearance.” 

“ Miss Isabella is talking to my son Jonathan,” said 
Lucas. 

“ How kind you were to think of her,” said Kavanagh, 
“ and the Baron at your side. How did you contrive to 
amuse him for so long a period ?” 

“ Indeed,” replied Mrs. Mersey, “ it was not particu- 
larly easy — I wanted him to try the effects of galvanism 
on Miss Jermyn, as it makes all old things tender ; but 
he c vas so shock’ at the proposal that he ran away, and 
I believe he is now in the music room, listening to the 
warblings of J^ady Jacintha.” 

“ Miss Jermyn must have interested his feelings, I 
should think, since your remark produced so strong an 
effect upon him.” 

“ Probably ; for when I mentioned that she had got 
five thousand pounds, he immediately asked, ‘ if it vas 
for de one year, or for de every year and had it been 
for ‘ de every year,’ I suspect he would have tried any 
experiment to galvanize her heart*” 

“Do not allow Lady Jacintha toengross him altogeth- 
er.” 

“ Not if I can help it — the perverse creature is my lead- 
ing star to-night, although he refused to introduce me as 
a partner to a prodigiously grand, hairy old Von , who ac- 
companies him.” 

“ What plea could he urge for his refusal ?” 


28 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER, 


“Oh, he said 1 his friend’s dance be stopped, for he 
vas married.’ ” r 

“ These quadrilles are not nearly as sociable dances as 
our old fashioned country dances,” observed Kavanagh. 

“ Lady Jacintha, I think, talks of introducing a new 
Greek dance,” said Mrs. Mersey ; “ it is danced at — at 
— let me see — I cannot recollect ” 

“ Have you ever seen it ?” asked Kavanagh. 

“ Poh I how excessively provoking that I cannot at this 
moment recollect where they dance it,” continued the 
widow with an air of inexpressible annoyance. 

“ 1 can find out for you, ma’am, in an instant, if you 
wish/’ said Lucas, politely pitying her apparent vexa- 
tion. 

“ You? Sir, I am much obliged, I am sure — how can 
you ascertain ?” 

“ I ’ll just ask Jonathan,” said Lucas, “ he knows all 
about Greek and the Greeks.” 

“ Oh, Sir, don’t trouble yourself, I beg — I shall recol- 
lect it presently, I suppose.” 

“ How beautifully Captain Bingham dances,” said Ka- 
vanagh, “quite like an opera-dancer.” 

“ No wonder,” observed Mrs. Curwen ; “ he learned 
at the battle of Waterloo.” 

“ At the battle of Waterloo ! I fancy that the Water- 
loo dances were of a very different description.” 

“No ; he told me that Monsieur le Foudroyant, who 
had been a maitre-a-danse, deserted from Bonaparte’s 
army, and instructed several British officers in the inter- 
vals of the engagement.” 

The company were now in motion. All were danc- 
ing, walking, talking, laughing, or flirting. Fitzroy Mor- 
daunt sauntered towards Kavanagh’s groupe, and eyed 
the dancers through his glass with an air of nonchalance. 

“ You strange and silent being,” said Mrs. Mersey, 
who had known Fitzroy in London, “ you scarcely move 
— you scarcely speak — -you scarcely smile. Do you 
know it is apprehended that you will become a spectre 
at the awful hour of twelve, which is fast approaching?” 

Fitzroy Mordaunt smiled superciliously. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


29 


“ Nay, 5 ' said Mrs. Mersey, “ that smile is not ghastly 
enough for a spectre. 55 

“ How can you expect him to smile, 55 said O’Connor, 
“ when his mind is engaged in deep and solemn con- 
templation of our words and deeds, which are duly noted 
down, to re-appear in a hot-pressed three-volume post- 
octavo ?” 

“ Oh, don’t put me in print, for pity’s sake,” said Mrs. 
Curwen. 

“When does your work appear?” asked Mrs. Mer- 
sey. 

“ I know not,” replied Fitzroy. 

“ Am 1 your heroine ?” demanded Mrs. Mersey. 

“ My work will not be a novel,” said Fitzroy. 

“ And do you suppose that 1 could not figure to ad- 
vantage except in a novel ? What a very impolite suppo- 
sition ! Your book, then, I fancy, will be ‘ Sketches of 
Society in Ireland, interspersed with Statistical Details, 5 
or something of that kind.” 

“ Something of that kind,” repeated Fitzroy. 

“ Then, my good Sir, I think you will acknowledge 
that a light and brilliant sketch of female character will 
be absolutely requisite, to relieve the sombre tedium of 
dry statistical information, and to impart legerete to the 
narrative.” 

“If you are writing a book about Ireland, Sir,” said 
Lucas, “ allow me to inform you that 1 have a son whose 
assistance will be quite at your service — he is bred to the 
bar, Sir — he understands all about topography, and his- 
tory, and mineralogy, and geology — and if you want a 
chapter about cock-fighting or horse-racing, Jonathan ’s 
your man. I wish you heard him talk.” 

“ Heaven forbid 1” thought Fitzroy. 

“ This fete will afford you materials for a chapter,” said 
the widow. 

“ I don ’t know that it will,” said the poet ; “ ordinary 
fetes have never much interested me, since I dined with 
Lord Waterford upon the top of Pompey’s Pillar.” 

“ Observe,” said Mrs. Curwen, “ the ingenuity with 
which Mr. Langton manoeuvres a partner for his daugh- 
ter. — Really, Mr. Mordaunt, you should keep your eye 
3 * 


30 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER o 


on these peculiarities of character — look at Langton now 
— he is sitting next Sophia, and watching until some 
suitable match appears, to whom he may resign his seat. 

At this moment Mr. Jervis approached, and as Mrs. 
Curwen predicted, Langton immediately rose and mo- 
tioned Mr. Jervis to the seat he had vacated, saying, 
“ Will you have the kindness to keep my place till I re- 
turn ?” 

“ Till he returns !” repeated Mrs. Curwen, “ do, pray, 
Mr. Mordaunt, put that in your book ; perhaps he may 
return in five hours, but certainly not sooner.” 

Baron Leschen returned to Mrs. Mersey, whom his 
heart perhaps reproached him for deserting, and assured 
her he ‘ vould be quite happy if she vould valse vid him.’ 
The lady consented to make him quite happy, and the 
rotatory evolutions immediately became general. 

“ Do you like this whirling?” asked Mrs. Curwen. 

“N — n — no,” replied Fitzroy, to whom the question 
was addressed. 

“ Is it not exceedingly graceful ]” 

“ I cannot say I think so. The only whirling I have 
seen, worth looking at, is that of the Dervises in the 
Tower of the Winds at Athens.” 

“ Could you not introduce it here ?” 

“ I fear not, it is too breezy ; and I do not think Irish 
agility could achieve anything better than a clumsy imi- 
tation.” 

“ What renders it so difficult ?” 

“ The absolute perfection of grace which is requisite. 
The dancers first revolve slowly, and their persons are as 
perpendicular as if they were fixed on pivots. By de- 
grees the rapidity increases, until at length they whirl 
with such swiftness, that a spectator cannot possibly dis- 
cern the features of their faces.” 

Meanwhile Mr. Jonathan Lucas, the young lawyer, 
had been busily rendering himself as agreeable as possi- 
ble to Isabella. 

“ Mrs. Curwen told me,” said he, “ that Mrs. Kavan- 
agh felt strongly disinclined to come this evening, but 
now that you are here, I am sure you would have regret- 
ted remaining away.” 


THE HUSBANH-HUNTER, 


91 

“ Mamma is very timid, and as the nights are dark, and 
the new approach unfinished, she felt rather afraid.” 

“ Do you know, Miss Kavanagh, that I think you have 
a vast deal of natural logic about you.” 

“ Logic ? Oh no ! the last acquisition I should have 
ever dreamt of possessing.” 

“ That is your modesty — the remark you have just 
made admits of being thrown into a syllogistic form.” 

“ Really ?” 

“Just observe now— danger excites alarm in Mrs. 
Kavanagh — that is the major proposition ; the dark 
night and the unfinished road, are dangerous — that is 
the minor ; therefore Mrs. Kavanagh felt afraid to come 
— that is the corollary.” 

Isabella did not feel much interested in this illustra- 
tion of her logical powers, and spoke of some lawsuit in 
which she understood that Mr. Lucas held a brief. 

“ Do you think that Mr. Edmonds is in any danger of 
having his uncle's will in his favor set aside ?” 

“ Unquestionably not, Ma'am — his title, as I appre- 
hend, is thoroughly impregnable ; — I would venture to 
defend it singly against all the lawyers of the empire. 
Sir Edward Coke defines a title, in his First Institute, as 
follows : £ Titulus est justa causa possidendi id quod 
nostrum est and applying this undeniable maxim to 
Mr. Edmonds’s case, I defy the united faculty to de- 
prive my client of his rightful inheritance.” 

“ I am told Miss Edmonds is soon to be married.” 

“ So I have heard : she is a beautiful creature, and 
I think it a pity she is throwing herself away on young 
Marsh.” 

“ I believe,” said Isabella, “ you are a warm admirer 
of her's.” 

“ 1 wish I were permitted to declare admiration else- 
where.” This was said with an air of bashful con- 
sciousness, and was followed, selon les regies, with a 
sigh of ineffable meaning. 

“ I would not recommend you to declare admiration,” 
said Isabella, purposely misunderstanding him ; “ un- 
less you were previously aware that its expression would 
be acceptable.” 


32 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“Ah ! I would make love in syllogistic form:” plead- 
ed Jonathan, in tones of the most tender pathos. 

“ How on earth could you manage to do so ?” said 
Isabella, laughing at the whimsical idea of her learned 
admirer. 

“ Have I permission to give you a specimen ?” said 
Jonathan, in accents of pathetic entreaty. 

“ Of a syllogism 1 Certainly.” 

“ Then,” said Jonathan, with eyes, voice, and man- 
ner, all taxed to the utmost to furnish a respectably am- 
orous expression ; “ then 1 am the major proposition ; 
you , my adorable Miss Isabella, are the minor proposi- 
tion ; and the consequential corollary will, 1 trust, with 
your kind concurrence, be the matrimonial ceremony, 
performed upon any day, at any moment, you may do 
me the superlative favor to appoint. Hey, Miss Isabel- 
la ? What do you think of my syllogism ?” 

Isabella was not even touchee enough to blush. She 
laughed at Jonathan, and said, “ Your syllogism is well 
enough — as a jest ; — but pray observe/’ she impressive- 
ly added in a very low voice, “ if you meant it seriously, 
I beg you may dismiss it from your mind — it would only 
lead to disappointment.” 

Kavanagh looked around for O’Sullivan, and found 
him in another apartment engaged in an all-engrossing 
and delicious tete-a-tete with the beautiful Lucinda Nu- 
gent. To Kavanngh’s keen eye, it appeared from their 
manner to each other, that they had met before. In 
this surmise he was not mistaken. O’Sullivan had for- 
merly visited at Martagon, the seat of Lucinda’s brother, 
Colonel Nugent, and his delight at meeting Lucinda on 
the present occasion was enhanced by> surprise. She 
met him with an air of the most flattering consciousness, 
and taking his arm, accompanied him to a sofa, “ to 
talk over,” as she said, with bewitching simplicity, “ the 
happy, happy days, when they used to gather shells upon 
the sandy shore at Martagon, and trace the woodland 
path together.” 

“ Those were indeed delightful days,” said O’Sullivan 
warmly. 

“ Then why not renew them ?” asked Lucinda in all 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 33 

artless kindliness ; “ my brother, I know, will be delight- 
ed to see you ” — I have heard him say a hundred times 
that he never loved any friend so well : — O, do come, 
Henry, and make us all so happy.” 

To resist so affectionate an invitation, proceeding from 
a being of such incomparable loveliness, was utterly im- 
possible. And Lucinda had called him by his Christian 
name ! No doubt she had always done so at Martagon, 
and their former childish intimacy justified the freedom ; 
yet, since then three years had passed ; she had shot up 
into womanhood, and her renewing the terms of familiar 
intercourse on which they had last met, was a proof 
of unabated affection, that afforded O’Sullivan the most 
exquisite gratification. 

“ And is Martagon unchanged ?” asked O’Sullivan. 

se Quite as unchanged, Henry, as the hearts of its in- 
habitants. My brother wanted to throw down the sum- 
mer-house that overhangs the sea, and to build a new 
one on a larger scale, but I would not permit him to re- 
move it. You do not forget the trouble we had in build- 
ing it, Henry — a wonderful effort for children — indeed 
we were little more than children then : — you and the 
gardener were the masons, and I — wild creature that I 
was ! carried sticks, and mortar, for which I entailed up- 
on myself certain serious lectures from my governess.” 

cc You sometimes played mischievous tricks upon Mrs. 
Davidson, in retaliation for her lengthy lectures,” observ- 
ed O’Sullivan, pursuing the full tide of reminiscence ; 
“ where is she now ?” 

“ Poor, poor thing,” replied Lucinda very feelingly, 
“ she would have been destitute indeed, if my brother 
had not given her a cottage when she left us ; her fami- 
ly refused to receive her, so we have felt it a duty ever 
since to contribute to her comfort as much as we possi- 
bly could.” 

While they thus conversed, Colonel Nugent, who was 
many years Lucinda’s senior, approached, and cordially 
shaking hands with O’Sullivan, reinforced his sister’s in- 
vitation by pressing his friend to spend a month at Mar- 
tagon. 

The Bally vallin family played their part to all their 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


34 

guests with the most electioneering affability : Lord Bal- 
ly vallin shook his grey head, and regretted to Kavanagh 
the days of their youth, when they both had been mem- 
bers of the Dublin Whig Club. 

Lady Bally vallin enchanted Mrs. Kavanagh, by ex- 
pressing her admiration of the lovely Isabella ; and Lady 
Frances, Lady Jacintha, and Lady Henrietta, took ap- 
propriate opportunities of hoping that they might fre- 
quently see all the ladies of the neighborhood at Knock- 
anea. 

When the hour of departure arrived, Mrs. Kavanagh 
caught her brother-in-law’s arm, exclaiming : — 

“ Did I not tell you some accident would happen to- 
night 

“ Yes, but you have frequently given me similar warn- 
ings, unattended with any result.” 

“ Will not anything convince you ? I knew what 
would happen ! the Narevilles have been upset.” 

“ Of what use is your prescience, since you did not 
inform the Narevilles of the impending disaster? If you 
wish to act a friendly part, tell Mrs. Nareville that she 
must expect similar misfortunes as long as she continues 
to crowd eight people into her coach, and to drive four 
half-broken, blood colts full gallop down hill.” 

“ I hope we may reach home alive,” said the lady. 

“ It will not be John’s fault if we do not; for he has 
been drinking safe home to us for the last five hours at 
the village.” 

Mrs. Kavanagh reproved her brother for his ill-timed 
mirth. 

Mr. Langton, elate with the success of his manoeuvre 
to secure Mr. Jervis as an attendant on his daughter for 
the greater part of the evening, determined to try the ef- 
fect of another ruse; and pretending to mistake Mr. 
Jervis’s carriage for his own, as it stood at the door, he 
deliberately handed in Miss Langton. But Jervis resist- 
ed this second attempt on his liberty, and very ungallant- 
ly restored the intrusive fair one to the arms of her pa- 
rent. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


35 


CHAPTER V. 


In these lone walls, their days’ eternal bound, 

These moss-grown domes with spiry turrets crowned. 

Where awful arches make a noonday night, 

And the dim windows shed a solemn light. 

Pope. 

“Why so pensive, Isabella V 9 asked Mrs. Kavanagh, 
as Isabella, on the morning following the ball, rested her 
head in a contemplative attitude upon her hand. Isa- 
bella answered not, and her mother repeated her ques- 
tion. 

“ Ma'am !” she exclaimed, — “ I beg pardon — I believe 
— I did not hear ” 

“ Well, my love, now that your attention is fixed, may 
I ask (for the third time), why are you so very pensive ?” 

“ Was I pensive, mother?” 

“ So exceedingly pre-occupied, that you did not even 
hear my question : — Does any tender reminiscence of 
young Lucas occasion this abstraction V 5 

“No indeed, mamma.” 

“ No, indeed ? Then perhaps you were thinking of 
that young Englishman who danced two sets with you 
— Moi'daunt, I think they call him V* 

Isabella’s crimsoned cheek at once informed her mo- 
ther that this last surmise was not very far astray from 
the truth. 

“ Child ! you do not answer me — Mordaunt paid you 
a good deal of attention ; — I am then to conclude that 
his attentions were not unacceptable.” 

“ They were not, mother,” replied the conscious Isa- 
bella, in a voice scarcely audible to an ear less interested 
than that of her auditress. 

“ Well, my love, you act rightly, to be candid with 
your mother — Do you think he likes you ?” 
i “ It is hard for me to tell, mamma ; but his manners 
were very — very — how shall I express it ? they were 
, more than attentive.” 

“ Isabella, take care you do not lose your heart, with- 
out gaining this Mordaunt’s in return.” Isabella sighed. 

■* 


36 


THE HUSBAND 6 HUNTER. 


“ I wish I knew who he is,’ 5 resumed her mother. 

“Mrs. Mersey knew him very well in London ; she 
says his family are persons of high consideration.” 

“ But is he an eldest son V 

“ I believe so.” 

“Well, in that case we will — inquire more about 
him.” 

“ Mrs. Mersey knows every thing about him, mamma.” 

“ Isabella, do you know' who was that tall,, elegant 
looking young man, who conversed so much with Lu- 
cinda Nugent ?” 

“Dear me, mother ! you must have been exceedingly 
absent ! My uncle pointed him out to you twice, and 
told you that he was O’Sullivan Lyra, the nephew of 
his old friend — he means, I believe, to ask him here.” 

“In that case,” replied Mrs. Kavanagh, “ Mordaunt 
will have a formidable rival.” 

Isabella shook her head incredulously. 

“Look, Isabella — some carriage is coming up the av- 
enue — whose can it be V 9 

An extraordinary equipage arrived at the door, which 
Mrs. Kavanagh recognized as Mrs. Our wen’s ; it was 
made by her nephew, the all-accomplished Jonathan 
Lucas, and resembled a huge square leathern box, brac- 
ed, buckled, and strapped in a very original manner, and 
was deemed one proof, among many others, of the ori- 
ginal genius of its maker. 

“ Well,” inquired Mrs. Kavanagh., when her visitor 
had entered, “ How did you like the fancy-ball ?” 

“ Ah, I was sadly disappointed — bad Lady Ballyval- 
lin consulted me } I could have pointed out many im- 
provements.” 

“ What were the deficiencies?” asked Mrs. Kava- 
nagh. 

“ I could not perhaps explain them to you now ; but 
had you asked me last night, when we were both on the 
spot, I could easily have shown you fifty things, in which 
a better taste might have appeared.” 

“ Well, I must congratulate myself on my want of 
taste — the scene struck me as being very brilliant.” 

“ Perhaps,” said Mrs. Curwen, my expectations were 


THE HESBAND-HUNTER. 


37 


too high ; I had reckoned on a scene from the Arabian 
Nights, at least ; but at all events Flora was greatly ad- 
mired. Lord Bally vallin asked who could have expect- 
ed to see so enchanting a creature at the foot of the 
mountains, like a myrtle, he said, in the regions of the 
Alps. Pray, Mr. Kavanagh, have you heard her sing 
Italian songs ?” 

“ 1 have,” replied Kavanagh. 

“ Candidly, what do you think of her style of sing- 
ing ?” 

“ Candidly, I wish she would sing in Greek, which 
you know is a much more sonorous language, and quite 
as intelligible as Italian to nine out of ten of her hear- 
ers. 5 ’ 

“ Ah, really that is a novel idea. Mr. Fitzroy Mor- 
daunt told Mrs. Mersey last night he had got some 
Greek melodies, and if one could possibly manoeuvre 
them from him, it would be quite delightful, for I do 
like to have every thing unusual and unique.” 

We must now transport our readers for a while to 
Mrs. Mersey’s boudoir. This lady had been upon a visit 
to Martagon, and had accompanied Colonel Nugent and 
Lucinda to Knockanea, where Lord Balfyvallin had in- 
vited them to pass a few days. 

The widow reclined upon a sofa, and surveyed 
with indolent pleasure the reflection of her graceful 
figure in a large toilet glass. Thoughts of the past, and 
visions of the future, chased each other through her 
mind, but she banished these intrusive visitors, and de- 
voted the full energy of her soul to the fixed considera- 
, tion of that point of time, which her general habits of 
j thinking and acting induced her to deem the most im- 
; portant — namely, the present. 

“ Let me reflect,” — such was the tenor of Mrs. Mer- 
sey’s ruminations,— “ how the grand game of man is 
to be played — What cards are on the table ? there is 
Baron Leschen with his stars and ribands, and his six- 
teen quarterings — can the baron be caught ? He is the 
king of trumps. Last night the pressure of his hand 
was incomparably tender ; but undoubtedly I cannot 
yet pronounce a conquest— I shall try what a little ap~ 

VOL. i. 4 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


88 

parent indifference will do ; I will devote myself for this 
day to our huge, furry, hairy, snuffy friend, Prince Gruf- 
fenhausen — -the hairy prince has got a very copious 
princess on the banks of the Rhine — n’importe — I do 
not want to disturb the matrimonial quiet of his Serene 
Hairiness — I only want to pique the baron by affecting 
indifference. 

“ Then, should the baron, with his ribands, stars, and 
quarterings fail me, there is the Reverend Anastasius 
Montgomery Wingcote — noble family — large private 
fortune — an interesting repentant roue , — somewhat fa- 
natical and evapore; he is rather passe, and looks shat- 
tered, but all things considered, he might answer pretty 
well — he likes female preachers — admired Mrs. Fry and 
Alice Cambridge. 

“ 1 could preach — I should certainly be altogether irre- 
sistible as a female pulpit orator. Let me see how I should 
dress; I think a sable robe, which should extend from 
head to foot, parted over my forehead, would answer 
admirably ; the contrast between the black muslin, and 
my snow-white forehead, would be extremely effective. 
My dark hair should be divided into two unequal bands, 
and a single curl should descend, as if unconsciously, to 
the dimple in my left cheek. Heavens ! if Wingcote 
could but see and hear me in the pulpit ! Never was a 
finer opening for display — and my white and beautifully 
rounded arm, might escape from the sable folds of my 
dark robe, flung aloft in the impassioned energy of ora- 
torical gesticulation. Should other projects fail, I look 
upon this as a certain game — so Wingcote may be book- 
ed as a corps-de-reserve. 

“ But there are others, en attendant , whom I certainly 
confess I should prefer attacking — I am strongly tempt- 
ed to assail young O’Sullivan Lyra — Oh, what a hus- 
band — what a charming husband be ivould make, if I 
only allowed the little blind god to gain the ascendant ! 
I never, never saw so sweet a smile ” 

Here Mrs. Mersey paused, as the soft remembrance of 
the smile suspended for a moment the course of her re- 
flections. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


S9 


“ He appears to admire Lucinda Nugent,” she resum* 
ed, “ and Lucinda is certainly beautiful ; but she wants 
experience, and O’Sullivan is also young, and extreme- 
ly inexperienced : I think if I regularly set to work, I 
could conjure him away from Lucinda — but Langton 
says he heard O’Sullivan’s estate was much involved, and 
I cannot say I like involved estates — yet if in a moment 
of softness I could make a sacrifice, my heart too plain- 
ly tells me it would be for him . 

“ Then there is Jervis — a desirable match in some re- 
spects, undoubtedly — but he cannot talk of anything 
except his regiment and the turf ; if I seriously thought 
of entangling his affections in love’s fairy snare, I should 
prepare for the enterprise by studying tibe army list and 
the racing calendar. No — I will have nothing to say to 
Jervis — positively nothing — I never could tolerate a hus- 
band with such an unprecedented nose — such a crimson 
beak, like the tail of a boiled lobster, — and then the 
vision of O’Sullivan’s elegant aquiline, rising in perpetu- 
al and tantalizing contrast — oh, O’Sullivan ! if my lot 
were cast with thine 

“But O’Sullivan cannot make me a baroness; and 
then an encumbered estate is unpromising — and Leschen 
is abundantly good-looking. 

“ How shall I manage to achieve the Baron ? Alas ! I 
am timid, retiring, and incapable of attempting those pro- 
digious master-strokes with which other women have not 
hesitated to conquer all obstacles. Albertina Gruffen- 
hausen loved the young Count Klaukenberg — he had 
sailed in a. steam-boat down the Rhine to escape the un- 
, pleasant predicament of seeing daily marks of an attach- 
i ment he never could return — Albertina’s brother pursued, 
overtook, and brought him back in triumph. — He induc- 
ed him to enter a solitary summer-house with Albertina, 

1 who locked the door, and brandishing a lighted torch, 

! informed him that a train of gunpowder had been laid 
i in the apartment, and that she would blow up the house 
that instant, if he did not consent to an immediate mar- 
j riage. The Count was terrified into compliance. Now, 
(| really I never could do such a thing, to become Empress 
[i of Austria, 


40 


tkE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ But the Baron — how to achieve him ! Lady Jacintha 
would be a useful confederate, if her ladyship could be 
trusted, which I fear would be a very equivocal chance. 
But — alerte ft la muraille — I linger unnecessarily here — 
I must play my game according to circumstances.” 

And the widow started from her sofa, and dressed to 
accompany a party who were going to explore the ruins 
of the abbey of Kilconnel. She was as yet undecided 
respecting the tactics she ought to adopt ; she hesitated 
whether to appear w r holly engrossed by Prince Gruffen- 
hausen’s conversation, or to seem fascinated by the charms 
of Leschen’s broken English, when she reached the 
drawing-room where the Baron, the Prince, Lady Bally- 
vallin, and Lady Jacintha, were seated. 

<c Dat ruins of Kilconnel/’ asked the Baron, “ is it 
goot distance off?” 

“ I believe three or four miles,” replied Lady Jacintha. 

“ Ach ! but it is grand large ruins, is it not ?” 

“ Pretty large, indeed ; but extremely inferior to your 
beautiful ruins at the Schloss Leschenhaus.” 

“ Are we soon to set out ?” asked Mrs. Mersey. 

“ I believe soon — whenever you please — has the car- 
riage been ordered, mamma?” asked Lady Jacintha. 

“ No — but I did not think we were to have it — prince 
Gruffenhausen’s vrowtchsk will take four persons — will 
it not ?” 

u It does takes four beoples, madame,” said the Prince. 

“Bah ! it is not so pleasant and goot and delightful 
half at all to dravel in, as my German cabriolet,” said 
Leschen. 

“But your cabriolet only holds two,” said Mrs. Mer- 
sey. 

“Ach ! mine goot honor and wort,” said the Baron, 
in a very low tone of most promising tenderness, “ but 
I do tink dat is not an great disadvantages, not at all. — 
Dere are sometimes occasions, mein goot lady, when two 
beoples like to make much talk wid each oder dat dey 
would not wish — mineheafens ! no ! — dat any oder one 
should hear.” 

“Most true,” answered Mrg. Mersey sighing, and with 
a modest, downcast, widowed glance. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


41 


“ Haf I not said true ?” pursued Leschen, tenderly. 

“ Indeed you have,” replied the widow, in a tone of 
exquisite softness. 

“ Which do you prefer, the vrowtchsk or the cabrio- 
let, Mrs. Mersey 1” asked Lady Jacintha, from the other 
end of the room. 

“ The cabriolet, certainly,” answered the widow. 

A footman now announced that both cabriolet and 
vrowtchsk were ready. Mrs. Mersey saw with pleasure 
prince GrufFenhausen attend Lady Ballyvallin and Lady 
Jacintha to the vrowtchsk, into which he handed them ; 
his serene hairiness still lingered on the gravel, as if 
expecting Mrs. Mersey would follow. Baron Leschen 
with infinite politeness assisted the widow to ascend the 
elevation of his airy cabriolet ; she seated herself, and 
looked around in triumph, when Lady Jacintha provok- 
ingly called Leschen, who attended her summons with 
apparent alacrity. 

“ Come in the vrowtchsk with us,” said her ladyship. 
Leschen bowed, and turning to GrufFenhausen, said, 

“ Mon prince, vil ^ou haf de gootness to do me de 
honor to do yourself de habbiness to drive Mrs. Mersey ?” 

ce I shall do so, mine goot baron, wid great habbiness,” 
replied the hairy man, and forthwith he ascended the 
cabriolet, took the reins, and flourished the whip, to the 
inexpressible chagrin of Mrs. Mersey, whose utmost ef- 
forts were put in requisition to conceal the vexation she 
felt at her very unexpected consignment to the care of 
GrufFenhausen. 

Lord Bally vallin’s coachman, an experienced whip, 
drove the vrowtchsk, (an outre sort of carriage, of Rus- 
sian construction ;) while GrufFenhausen was detained 
for a quarter of an hour by the efforts of a stupid 
groom to arrange some refractory bearing-rein. When 
the groom had settled the rein, his serene highness, em- 
ulous of the speed with which the vrowtchsk advanced, 
lashed on his steeds, to the infinite terror of the widow, 
whose alarm was increased by observing that her serene 
Jehu was exceedingly awkward and unskilful in his new 
vocation. Terrified and provoked, she still retained her 
4* 


42 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


usual sense of the ridiculous, and on Gruffenhausen’s 
bumping the wheel, to the imminent danger of their 
limbs, over a solitary stone that encumbered the centre 
of the road, she could not help saying, 

« Your serene highness is an excellent marksman.” 

“ Pofe !” returned the imperturbable man of hair, who 
thought she intended to compliment his skill as a sports- 
man, “ you do joke, madame ; I haf nefer been consid- 
er no goot marksman, not at all.” 

“But 4 think you an excellent one,” returned the 
widow, “for there was only one stone on the road, and 
you hit it.” 

“ Pofe !” said the serene man ; and observing that the 
vrowtchsk having now attained the bottom of a distant 
hill, was advancing at an increased speed, he whipped 
his horses furiously down the declivity, and the cabriolet 
swung, and rattled, and bumped, over the inequalities 
of a steep and rather ill-repaired road. 

“ For heaven's sake, do not go so fast,” implored Mrs. 
Mersey, “ we shall be upset.” 

“ My vrowtchsk is going fery vast, and I do wants to 
be at dose great ruin as soon as milady Ballyfallin.” 

“ Oh, we shall be there time enough — you will cer- 
tainly upset us.” 

“Pofe ! dat may not be no harm not at all — I upset 
de Princess Klinkerbergenbiittel and de Countess Sta- 
renhaus, two times, on de road from Balg to Ehrenbreit- 
stein, and dare vas not von bone in deir body vas broke.” 

“ But we might not be equally fortunate.” 

“ Bah ! you do not understand de great and weighty 
and ponderous mystery of de Fatalism — ” (Here the ve- 
hicle was nearly overturned, from the headlong speed 
with which Prince Gruffenhausen thundered over some 
deep ruts, which the greater skill of lady Ballvvallin’s 
coachman had enabled him to avoid ; Mrs. Mersey scream- 
ed in vain — ) “ de grand and ponderous mystery of die 
vorher bestimmung ,” continued his serene highness in 
a tone of the most philosophic placidity: “ Ach 1 mine 
goot Misdress Mersey, if Fate haf wrote in her book that 
we are to be upset, dere is noting in de world dat could 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


43 


hinder us to be upset — mine heafens ! no — if I drived 
dis cabriolet as slow as de snail do creep. But, mine 
wort ” 

“ I implore your Serene Highness to keep out of the 
way of that heap of broken stones.” 

“ But, mine honest wort ! if Fate haf wrote in her 
book dat we are not to be upset — mein heiligkeit ! we 
would be quite safe, Misdress Mersey, if I drived dis ca- 
briolet as fast as de grand Peolphan, whose fader was de 
lightning and his moder de east wind. Ach ! you haf 
not been instructed in the grand and mighty secrets, 
Misdress Mersey ; but I can insdruct you” — (here the 
whip smacked and whistled afresh about the sides and 
ears of tjie prancing horses). “ Our destiny is wrote 
bevore we see de light, and, mein himmel ! it is not in 
our powers and our hands to change it.” 

Mrs. Mersey now gave up remonstrance as useless, 
and threw herself back in her seat, awaiting the result 
with a feeling of agonized despair. His Serene High- 
ness continued to thunder along, in defiance of all ordi- 
nary chances of overturns and dislocation, as if for the 
purpose of ensuring Mrs. Mersey’s recollection of his les- 
son in fatalism, should she have the good fortune to sur- 
vive the present excursion. It Vvas true, that the car- 
riage conveying 1 Lady Bally vatlin speeded along with 
nearly equal rapidity ; but then her ladyship possessed 
the advantages of much more manageable horses, and a 
skilful coachman, who vvas not a fatalist. 

Every stone, or inequality, that deranged the smooth- 
ness of their rapid course, only elicited from Prince 
GrufFenhausen the contemptuous exclamation of “ pofe !” 
At a narrow part of the road, several carts impeded his 
impetuous career, and his highness’s philosophy had* 
given way to a somewhat irate state of feeling long be- 
fore he was able to extricate his cabriolet. When at 
length he succeeded in doing so, he again lashed his 
horses, to urge them to overtake the vrowtchsk, which 
had now gained the abbey cemetery ; the animals be- 
came utterly unmanageable ; they pranced, kicked, 
plunged, and finally set off in a tremendous gallop, which 


44 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


continued till they reached the ruined abbey of Kilcon- 
nell ; where, rushing to the side of the road, they over- 
turned the cabriolet against a low stone enclosure, and 
Mrs. Mersey was pitched into the expanded arms of 
Baron Leschen, who, with his fair convoy, had just de- 
scended from the vrowtchsk. “ I believe, Baron,” said 
Lady Jacintha, “ you are the first philosopher who ever 
caught a falling star.” 

“Good heavens ! is she seriously hurt?” asked Lady 
Bally vallin, coming forward to examine the sufferer. 

“Pofe !” cried Prince Gruffenhausen, getting up and 
shaking himself, “she did not fall against der stones — !t 
vas wrote in de Book of Destiny dat she vas to get dis 
oberturn — Mein heiligkeit ! she almost knock down poor 
Leschen !” 

“ 1 dare say,” whispered Lady Jacintha to her mother, 
“ Mrs. Mersey would have no objection to fifty upsets, 
provided they were all to end like the present, in the 
Baron’s arms.” 

Lady Bally vallin was assiduously applying salts to the 
nostrils of the fainting widow, which pungent application 
at length elicited a sneeze. Still, however, she looked 
miserably pale, her eyes were closed, and she spoke not. 
An attendant brought cushions from the carriage, and 
laid them on the grass, for her accommodation ; but her 
arm was so firmly clasped round Baron Leschen’s neck, 
that it was impossible to disengage her from him, even 
although she continued apparently insensible. 

Her insensibility seemed so pertinaciously resolved to 
resist all efforts to dispel it, that Lady Bally vallin , who 
felt much curiosity to survey the ruins, deemed it useless 
to wait any longer in the hope of Mrs. Mersey’s revival ; 
and, taking Prince Gruffenhausen’s arm, “ Come,” said 
she, “ Jacintha may remain with Mrs. Mersey, if she 
wishes — some of our friends are here already, I perceive 
— let us join them.” 

“ Oh, mamma,” said Lady Jacintha, “ I will go too.” 

Her ladyship accompanied Lady Bally vallin and the 
Prince into a neighboring cloister, where, separating 
from her party on some trifling pretext, she looked 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


45 


through a loop-hole at Mrs. Mersey, who had opened 
her unparalleled eyes, and was gracefully, yet faintly, 
thanking Baron Leschen for his attention. 

“ But, oh !” she suddenly exclaimed, shrinking from 
him with a look of horror, “ we are left alone 1 What 
will the world say — what will be thought of me, when it 
transpires? oh ! what will the world say ? I cannot en- 
dure the idea ! why did you allow every creature to leave 
us ?” 

And Mrs. Mersey supported herself against a tomb- 
stone, in pitiable agitation. Leschen seemed exceedingly 
perplexed how to answer such a startling appeal, or how 
to soothe her modest perturbation. He walked over to a 
monument, at some little distance, and appeared intently 
engaged in an effort to decipher the inscription. 

“ Baron Leschen,” said the widow, u how can you 
possibly be so much engrossed by the dead, when the 
living demand your attention and sympathy ?” 

“ I beg tousand pardon — but I tought you vas shock 
at my being too near you — Dis is curious tomb — I tink 
I haf read of dis tomb in some history.” 

“ Cruel man ! it would not be amiss if you were un- 
der it. But what can at this moment make it so inte- 
resting?” 

“I do try to make out dis inscription, which is all 
about — I do tink — is all about — all about — a tale — of 
murder.” 

“ A tale, indeed ! but nothing to the tale of modern 
times, which will ring through the world, when my hav- 
ing remained alone here with you becomes generally 
known.— Oh ! I shall never survive it !” And Mrs. Mer- 
sey wrung her snowy hands in agony. 

t£ Vat shall I do, Misdress Mersey?” 

“ What shall you do 1 Ask your heart, inhuman ! 
what you have done — you invited me to take a seat in 
your cabriolet, and when I accepted it, you handed me 
over to the care of Prince Gruffenhausen, who is certain- 
ly possessed with a devil, and who narrowly missed kill- 
ing me.” 

“ I vas shocking wrong, to be sure,” said the Baron, 
deeply penitent, and approaching the interesting widow 


46 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


with a look that seemed earnestly to deprecate her dis- 
pleasure: “ I vas shocking wrong, Misdress Mersey, but 
vat could I do, when milady Jacintha ask me to go into 
de vrowtchsk ]” 

“ What could you do ? You might have told her that 
you could not leave me to the tender mercies of Prince 
Gruffenhausen, you might have told her ” 

What further suggestions Mrs. Mersey was going to 
make, we do not know ; for just at this moment Lady 
Jacintha, who had watched the whole dialogue from the 
loop-hole in the cloister, and who felt alarmed at the 
tender penitence displayed by Leschen, suddenly appear- 
ed, to terminate a colloquy which the widow’s address 
might possibly have rendered rather a dangerous one. 

“ I flew back,” quoth her ladyship, “ to inquire how 
Mrs. Mersey is — I am delighted to see she has revived.” 

“ Thank you,” faintly articulated the widow. 

“ Are you sdrong enough now, mein goot lady,” said 
the Baron, “ to walk among de ruins ?” 

“ I will try,” she answered, rising from her cushions 
with the aid of the tombstone, against which she had re- 
clined. Leschen could not avoid offering her his arm, 
on whiGh she leaned as heavily, as if she meant, by doing 
so, to impress upon his mind how much she required his 
assistance and sympathy. Lady Jacintha continued to 
address to the Baron her voluble remarks on the building. 

i: Now that tower, the most perfect remnant of the ab- 
bey, is one of the best specimens that I have ever seen of 
the monastic style in Ireland. Look, Baron, at the old 
grey battlements ; the genuine ecclesiastical battlements, 
and the crocketed pinnacles. I wish we could discern 
the arms on that ancient shield ; it is not easy at this 
distance.” 

“ I think they are the arms of the M‘Carthys,” said 
Mrs. Mersey, steadily surveying the shield, which sur- 
mounted a window in the second story ; “ a stag courant .” 

“ Now I could not possibly discern that,” said Lady 
Jacintha ; “ these seem to be wonder-working ruins, for 
they have restored Mrs. Mersey’s sight. She has quite 
forgotten to use her eye-glass, and yet she deciphers a 
rude, old, moss-grown shield.” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


47 


Mrs. Mersey searched for her eye glass in dignified 
silence, while Lady Jacintha endeavored to assist her re- 
collection by observing, that perhaps Baron Leschen 
might know where it was ; that it possibly had fallen 
from her reticule during her fainting fit — that perhaps it 
might be found among the cushions upon which she had 
reclined.” 

“ I haf no knowledges about it, not at all,” said Les- 
chen ; “ I haf not seen it dis day.” 

Mrs. Mersey put an end to Lady Jacintha’s officious 
suggestions, by saying, that she now recollected having 
left the eye-glass that morning on her dressing-table. 

They ascended a spiral staircase to a broken doorway, 
that commanded the interior of the ancient church : be- 
neath a distant arch appeared another groupe. 

“ Does your ladyship knows who are dose beoples ?” 
asked Leschen. 

“Not at this distance/’ replied Lady Jacintha ; “ but 
perhaps Mrs. Mersey, whose sight is so peculiarly acute 
to-day, may recognize them.” 

“ 1 think I do,” said the widow, with great sweetness, 
which she intended should tell , as contrasted with her 
ladyship’s sarcastic manner. Nor was she wholly mis- 
taken in her calculation, for Leschen, struck with the 
contrast, was surprised into the mental ejaculation of, 
“ Sweed, goot creature.” 

“I think,” pursued Mrs. Mersey, “ that the gentle- 
men are your guests, Colonel Nugent and Mr. O’Sulli- 
van ; and the lady is the beautiful Lucinda. Oh, Baron ! 
She is a most lovely being, is she not ? You must admire 
her as much as I do.” 

“ She is beautiful lady, certainly — very beautiful. She 
is going to draw pigtures of de abbey, I do tink — see, 
she haf her paper stretch out before her.” 

The Baron was right: Lucinda, whose accomplish- 
ments had all been improved to perfection, was proceed- 
ing to sketch the picturesque and broken aisle. 

“ How gracefully,” said she, “ the ivy twines its wind- 
ing spray, as if to conceal the ravages of time upon this 
desolate fabric ! what a subject for a painter ! Henry,” 
she continued, addressing O'Sullivan, “ you will be so kind 


48 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


to fold your arms, let your hat rest negligently on the 
grass at your feet, and lean your back against that shat- 
tered pillar — a scene such as this is much improved by fig- 
ures, and I must put yours ,” she said with a bewitching 
smile, “ in the foreground of the groupe. Nay, now,” she 
added, starting up, “ you are awkward — you must allow 
me to arrange your attitude ; fold your arms thus — there 
— that will do — look upwards — a little more — more — 
that will do — as if you were gazing on the 

1 Old solemn, royal Night, 

That wraps her purple round the Stars august, 

As though she called them children*.’ 

So far very well — cross your feet — oh, you can surely do 
that without my assistance. Sir, your attitude is quite 
too constrained for a picture — do throw a little more 
ease into it.” 

“ Lucinda, it is very hard to please you.” 

“ Well, well, Henry,” she answered, laughing, “ do as 
you like yourself. There, now — Oh ! that is really ma- 
jestic — just remain as you are, and look exceedingly con- 
templative. Now, brother, I want you to frown over 
Henry’s shoulder — yes, that will answer very well — I 
will make a monk of you — patience, now — patience for 
a very few moments.” 

And Lucinda sketched with taste and scientific accu- 
racy, the arches, the pillars, and her little groupe, care- 
fully preserving the awful and mysterious frown of Colo- 
nel Nugent, whom she metamorphosed into a monk, by 
enveloping his figure in monastic robes, and depriving 
his head of its dark brown curls. 

“ Do you wish,” asked Colonel Nugent, “ to introduce 
a wild, hyperborean satyr into your sketch ?” 

Not in character,” answered his sister. 

“ For if you do, just look up to the arch upon your 
left.” 

Lucinda looked up, and beheld the Serene Fatalist 
staring at her labors through the uncouth and frizzled 
mass of hair with which his visage was encumbered. 
When he saw he had arrested her notice, he walked off. 

V. 

* Lady Emmeline Stuart Wortley. 


TJ3E HUSBAND-HUNTER, 


49 


ottering a supercilious “ pofe !” at the unimportant na- 
ture of her occupation. 

“ Really, sister,” said Nugent, “ I can’t stay frowning 
here all day to suit your convenience — I think I have 
frowned enough now— I want to speak to Leschen,who, 
I think, has just descended the stairs of that tower with 
Lady Jacintha and the Mersey. 5 ’ 

“ Well, go — go by all means — I do not want you any 
.longer.” 

Thus dismissed, Colonel Nugent went to join the Ba- 
ron, leaving Henry and Lucinda alone. 

“ Have you finished me yet ?” asked Henry. 

“ Oh, yes — quite — come and see how you look on pa- 
per.” 

Henry accordingly stooped down to look at Lucinda's 
drawing, and was struck with the accurate resemblance 
of his features and form, which the fair artist had con- 
trived to impart to the very diminutive sketch to which 
the limited proportions of her drawing constrained her. 

“ Will you give me this drawing when it is finished V 5 

“No, Henry — do not ask me: I shall heep it my- 
self."’ 

“ Will you ever gaze upon this” (pointing to his 
own figure in the groupe) “ when the original is toiling 
under Indian suns ?” 

“ What — what do you say, Henry? Indian suns? 
You surely are not thinking of going to India? or did I 
hear you aright •?” 

“ Even so, Lucinda, 55 answered O’Sullivan, in a tone 
of solemn and melancholy determination. “ If I were 
possessed of wealth, or even of a moderate competence 
at home , I never should wish to leave the shores of my 
beloved Ireland ; I never should wish to leave •” 

He paused, and seemed to hesitate ere he finished the 
sentence. Lucinda blushed deeply, and resumed her 
pencil, with which she became busily occupied. 

u To leave you, Lucinda,” O’Sullivan found courage 
1° say. 

Lucinda worked away at her drawing with intense 
assiduity. 

VOL. j. 


5 


50 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ Oh, forgive my boldness,” continued Henry, “ have 
I offended you ?” 

“ Indeed you have not,” replied Lucinda, in soft, low 
accents, and still bending her eyes upon her drawing ; 
but her hand trembled with intense emotion, and the 
pencil fell from it. 

“Oh, dearest Lucinda, how exquisitely sweet and pre- 
cious are these fleeting moments — the last, perhaps, I may 
for years be permitted to enjoy — Oh ! let me tell you 
that I love you — love you to distraction — I have loved 
you, have borne your dear image in my heart ever since 
we met at Martagon — can I — can I venture to hope, 
that these feelings are mutual — 1 know I am inexpressi- 
bly presumptuous — but yet, I had flattered myself ” 

“ Hush !” said Lucinda, “ here is Prince Gruffen- 
bausen.” 

And as she spoke, his Serene Highness approached 
from a postern door, inhaling huge quantities of German 
snuff from an enormous gold box. His moustache was 
thickly powdered with the “ titillating dust.” 

“ Baf ! I know not for why beoples go to see such 
place as dese ruin — dey were goot enough in de daysh 
of de old monksh, ven der vas goot store of gold and 
silber plate, and moche great ponderous riches on dese 
altar, dat beoples could make sack and plunder of. But, 
mein himmel ! I cannot understand how der is any plea- 
sures, or enjoyments, or habbiness, in looking at old 
empty tumbling w^alls like dese — pofe !” 

O’Sullivan said something of the interest excited by 
the splendid w'orks of other ages — the memorials of men 
who had long since crumbled into dust. 

“ Mein wort, Mr. O’Sullibans, dat is de most foolish- 
est reasons as I efer heard — and what goot are memori- 
al of dose dusty old shentlemans ? A life dog is better 
than a dead king — pofe !” 

This conversation was an extremely unwelcome inter- 
ruption of poor Henry’s tender ecstacies ; but politeness 
required that he should make some remark in answer 
to Prince Gruffenhausen, who, however, soon relieved 
him of his presence, by going in pursuit of Lady Bally- 
vallin and some friends who had joined her party. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


51 


“ And now that his execrable highness is gone,” said 
Henry, “ may I venture to express a hope — a prayer — - 
Oh ! pardon me, dearest Lucinda — that Lucinda may 
accept this hand ? My heart is long since her’s, and 
hers most devotedly.” 

Lucinda unresistingly abandoned her beautiful hand 
to the caress of his, and murmured a timid, and yet not 
reluctant consent to their union, whenever Henry’s cir- 
cumstances should have improved so far, as probably to 
disarm any opposition on the part of Colonel Nugent to 
the match. 

“ Oh, my beloved Lucinda !” cried the successful lov- 
er, “ you have made me the happiest of men — I will go 
instantly and speak to Nugent.” 

“ Do not, Henry,” said Lucinda, “ for heaven’s sake 
do not ! allow matters to remain as they are for a while 
— grant your Lucinda this request — she has excellent 
reasons for it.” 

“ May I ask what they are?” 

“You may not inquire any further, dear Henry — at 
present ; in the meanwhile I expect you will rely thus far 
upon my prudence. But Henry — dear Henry ! surely 
you cannot be serious in your notion of going to India ? 
oh, do not, do not quit Ireland.” 

“ Lucinda, I must leave Ireland for a while. I do not 
now stand in a position that could render me an eligible 
match for you, in the eyes of either your brother or of 
the world. Dearly and intensely as I love you, I do not 
press you to an immediate union, because I possess not 
at present the means to afford you those comforts which 
habit, to you, has rendered necessary. My estate is em- 
barrassed, and the debts of my father ” 

“ But why go to India ?” interrupted Lucinda, “ have 
you any prospect of obtaining an appointment there?” 

“ I have not got a positive promise. But a powerful 
friend, who is going to India, has pressed me to accom- 
pany him, and he tells me that when there , he is nearly 
certain of being able to procure me a lucrative appoint- 
ment.” 

“ But in case you should fail,” said Lucinda, “ you will 
have incurred much expense in going and returning ?” 


52 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTKK. 


“ That expense my generous relation has engaged to 
Sefray ; and the appointment he believes he ean procure 
for me, will enable me, should he succeed, to return irr 
three or four years, and to claim my Lucinda*. Oh J 
with what intense anxiety I shall look forward to the hap- 
py, happy period of our meeting, never more to part !” 

Lucinda permitted Henry to press his lips to her’s, and 
the lovers had exchanged repeated vows of eternal, in- 
violable constancy, when Colonel Nugent and the rest of 
the Bally vallin party approached from the adjoining cem- 
etery, in order to inform Lucinda that they were now 
about to return to Knockanea. Lady Ballyvallin’s man- 
ner to O’Sullivan was exceedingly affable and courteous, 
for which, perhaps, he was partly indebted to her lady- 
ship’s discovering that he had long been the intimate 
friend of the Nugents. Before they separated, Colonel 
Nugent made him fix a day for his journey to Martagoo, 
which was distant some thirty miles from Knockanea. 

Mrs. Mersey reascended the cabriolet, on the express 
terms that Baron Leschen, and not the prince, should 
drive it; Colonel Nugent and Lucinda mounted their 
horses; Lady Bally vallin, the lovely Jacintha, and Prince 
Gruffenhausen entered the vrowtchsk, and the whole 
party returned to Knockanea. 

O’Sullivan retraced his steps to his hospitable quarters 
at Father O’Connor’s. 


CHAPTER VI. 


o, woman’s smiles 1 O, woman’s smiles * 

Who can resist their witching wiles? 

Song. 

Lucas, the young lawyer, continued to persecute Miss 
Kavanagh with various indirect attentions, of which the 
object was sufficiently intelligible. Isabella did not men- 
tion this annoyance to her mother or her uncle, as old 
Lucas was an intimate and long-tried friend of Mr. 


the husband-hunter. 53 

Kavaffagh’s, and she did not wish to act in a manner 
which might tend to interrupt their friendship, as might 
have been the case had Kavanagh felt himself compelled 
to wound old Lucas’s paternal pride, which was marvel- 
ously sensitive where the incomparable Jonathan was in 
question. She had also hopes of inducing the aspiring 
swain to relinquish his designs upon her hand ; and, 
finally, she looked forward to the approaching departure 
of Jonathan for Dublin, which was his usual residence, 
as a certain termination to the present disagreeable pre- 
dicament. 

But Miss Kavanagh did not prove altogether so inex- 
orable to the elder Mordaunt ; who, after making nu- 
merous prudential inquiries regarding her fortune and her 
expectations (the latter always form a considerable por- 
tion of a lady’s possessions in Ireland), concluded that 
he could not do a wiser, or more prudent thing, than to 
make her an offer of his hand. 

Isabella’s heart pleaded strongly in her lover’s favor; 
she referred him to her mother for an answer, and she 
begged that her mother might accept his suit. 

Mrs. Kavanagh took an early opportunity of asking 
Mrs. Mersey certain questions respecting Mr. Mordaunt. 

“ You met him in London, did you not ? ,r 

“ Yes,” replied the widow, “ very frequently.” 

“ Did he seem recherche ?” asked the anxious mother. 

“ Yes — to make up whist parties,” answered Mrs. 
Mersey. 

“ Hum — and was that his sole merit in society ?” 

“ Oh, dear, no — he danced extremely well too.” 

“ His connexions are good V r 

“ Very good — he is cousin to Lord C and Lord 

D .” 

“ Have you any idea, Mrs. Mersey — that is, did you 
ever hear any one mention what his property may be?” 

“ My dear madam, your inquiries are so very minute, 
that 1 begin tp fancy you must have a personal interest 
in making them.” 

“ Entre nous , he has proposed for Isabella,” said Mrs. 
Kavanagh. 

“ Indeed? I congratulate you most sincerely. But 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTEK. 


54 

his property — -may be anything, or nothing, for what I 
know. I certainly never saw any experienced mammas 
laying traps for him, which could have hardly been the 
case if he were at all worth looking after \ but ! heard — 
that is, I think I heard, some old uncle, or cousin, or aunt 
— indeed I am not certain, I paid so very little attention 
to the circumstance — but I think I heard some person say 
that Mordaunt had an estate in Yorkshire, or Wiltshire, 
or somewhere. Oh ! I believe the man has certainly got 
something — he was always extremely fortunate at cards ; 
that I know.” 

“Has he a house in London ? w 

“ I believe not ; when I met him he was quite domes- 
ticated at Lord C ’s.” 

“ Was he said to be a roue ?” 

Mrs. Mersey laughed. “ How can I tell ?” said she : 
“ not more so, I suppose, than the rest of the world.” 

“ Oh, but really,” said Mrs. Kavanagh, “ I am anxious 
upon this point, for I never will allow Isabella to marry 
any one whose moral conduct, at least, is not unexcep- 
tionable.” 

“ My dear Mrs. Kavanagh, I quite coincide in your 
sentiments, and I should certainly write to London, to 
know if Mr. Mordaunt enjoyed the reputation of being a 
roue there, only that my friends might possibly accuse 
me of planning to convert him, by matrimony, and I 
would not incur that suspicion on any account. The 
world, you know,” said the prudent widow, in a mora- 
lizing tone, “ is so very censorious.” 

“ But you never heard,” said Mrs* Kavanagh, “ that he 
was a roue.” 

“ Not I. I never heard whether he was or not.” 

“ Have you had any opportunity of knowing if his 
temper was good ? Temper is a leading consideration 
where marriage is in question.” 

“ Temper ] let me see. I have certainly seen him 

bear a vast deal of petulance from Lord C at whist ; 

Lord C is dreadfully ill-tempered at cards, whether 

winning or losing. Mordaunt stands it all in perfect si- 
lence, and never moves a muscle of his apathetic coun- 
tenance.” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


55 


“ Perhaps Mordaunt’s temper was mere sullenness. ” 

“ Really/’ replied the widow, “ I don’t pretend to an- 
alize his motives — all I know is that he looked unmoved 
and philosophical, and contrived to lose the game for 

Lord C (whose partner he was), most probably in 

order to take his revenge for his lordship’s impertinence.” 

“ I earnestly wish that I could ask some perfectly im- 
partial person ^bout his disposition,” said Mrs. Kavan- 
agh ; “ you must certainly know some of his intimate ac- 
quaintance in London, Mrs. Mersey ; will you oblige me 
by writing a letter of inquiry to some of them ; you can 
manage it so as to disarm suspicion of any particular de- 
sign.” 

“ Pardon me, but that is precisely the thing I could 
not manage — and as to an impartial person, pray who 
is impartial upon any subject?” 

u But you ’ll write — won ’t you ?” 

“ Oh, certainly, if you wish it,” replied Mrs. Mersey, 
briskly. And down she sate to her escritoire, and quickly 
wrote a letter, requesting information from a female friend, 
concerning all possible particulars connected with Mor- 
daunt ; “ you need not apprehend,” said she to Mrs. 
Kavanagh, 44 that my friend’s replies will flatter Mor- 
daunt, for she easily will guess that these queries involve 
some matrimonial scheme, and being herself a disap- 
pointed spinster, of old standing, she will not feel par- 
ticularly anxious to expedite, for others, that felicitous 
consummation which she has never been able to accom- 
plish in her own case. See,” continued the widow, 
showing Mrs. Kavanagh her letter, 44 1 have conquered, 
for your sake, all my delicacy, and have put my inqui- 
ries under their several heads, with all the precision of a 
geologist classifying strata.” 

44 Thank you, dear Mrs. Mersey — a thousand times 
thank you ; I shall feel most wretchedly impatient, till 
your correspondent’s answer comes.” 

The answer came at length, and was not by any 
means unfavorable ; especially as the writer’s prejuges 
were presumed to be inconsistent with a favorable state- 
ment. 

44 Estate — in Yorkshire, an ancient family possession 


Tftfc H U S B A ND -H UNTEfL 


56 

— its value reputed 3000/. per annum — say two in real- 
ity. Character — she was wholly unable to say what 
it might be, as she never had heard it either censured or 
praised. With respect to the [word ‘ roue ’ which Mrs. 
Mersey had used in her letter, she (the writer) begged 
that it never might again be addressed to her, as she un- 
derstood that it implied a description of person that she 
could not exactly approve of, and wished to hear nothing 
about.” 

“ She is perfectly right,” said Mrs. Kavanagh. 

“ Pooh ! all cant and hypocrisy,” answered the widow. 
u Well — Temper — never heard that his temper was bad ; 
in fact, on the contrary, she was inclined t q estimate it 
very highly, from having seen Mr. Mordaunt’s patience 
most cruelly tried one evening, by being compelled to 
sit out a sonata from Miss Ethelinda Fancourt, a cavatina 
from Miss Henrietta, a capriccio giocoso from Miss 
Frances (who chose to be called Fanchette), a bravura 
from Miss Medora, and a grand quart etto maestoso from 
Ethelinda, Henrietta, Fanchette" and Medora in full 
chorus y all which inflictions Mr. Mordaunt endured with 
a temper that would have done honor to the primitive 
martyrs,” 

“ How she hates those four women !” interjected the 
widow, “ and all from the spirit of rivalry.” 

“ Read on,” said Mrs. Kavanagh. 

“ Oh, the rest only tells us what we all know already, 
that Mordaunt’s descent is distinguished, and that his 
mother traced her pedigree from Rollo, Duke of Nor- 
mandy.” 

Kavanagh followed up his sister’s sagacious inquiries 
by writing to some persons of consideration in York- 
shire, to learn the reality of Mordaunt’s possessions, and 
the answers he received were in every respect satisfac- 
tory. 

Meanwhile the ardent lover rose higher every day in 
Isabella’s estimation ; his conversation,, if not brilliant, 
was at least eminently rational and pleasing ; his person 
was strikingly handsome ; and no one better could as- 
sume the tender tone, and point the insinuating glance, 
which woman’s heart has a thousand times found so fa- 
tally delicious. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


57 


CHAPTER VII, 


La verite est, qu’etant ambitieuse, elle n’avoit voulu epouser qu’un homme cte 
grande qualite. 


Paul et Virginie. 


Lady Jacintha engrossed so much of Baron Les- 
chen’s admiration by the inimitable style in which sbe 
warbled her German songs, of which she had an end- 
less collection, that Mrs. Mersey found it absolutely 
indispensable to take some decided step, to arrest the 
formidable progress her ladyship was hourly making in 
the Baron’s heart ; a progress which was rapidly tending 
to a very ^unequivocal monopoly. 

But what could Mrs. Mersey do ? Of musical talent 
she had none, and the Baron was passionately fond of 
music. Here Lady Jacintha had a formidable advan- 
tage. Oh ! it was killing, — absolutely killing to- the 
widow, to see Leschen, rapt in admiration, gazing i» 
ecstacyupon the lovely songstress, while his soul drank 
in the rich and languid melodies of his distant native 
land, or was whirled aloft to the third heaven on the 
wings of a brilliant, sparkling allegretto , which was tril- 
led forth in tones of exquisite and fairy lightness by lips 
whose beauty distanced all the loveliness which poets 
have ascribed to the “ parted cherries” of their heroines. 
“ Something must be done,” thought Mrs. Mersey, 
“and quickly too — for matters have become very criti- 
cal. — She engrosses so much of his time and attention — 
if 1 could engross as much in any other way, I might 
trust to my own savoir faire for the rest — her lady- 
ship’s talents are all in the musical line — mine are rather 
in the-Jiterary department — I have it — I have it !” ex- 
claimed the fair widow, as a plan occurred to her inven- 
tive brain, of counterpoising Lady Jacinfha’s formidable 
influence ; “ I will learn German from Leschen — yes ! 
that will do — I have some slight knowledge of the 
language already, but I need not tell him so — he will 
be the more astonished at the ease and quickness with 
which I shall acquire it — Yes ! I will be Leschen’s pu- 


58 


TH£ HUSBAND-HtJNTEIl. 


pil ; and oh ! what innumerable opportunities will be 
thus afforded, of bringing into play the exhaustless artil- 
lery of love.” 

Accordingly, Mrs. Mersey, with the Baron’s assistance, 
commenced a spirited attack upon the mysteries of Ger- 
man verbs and nouns, and the nearly impregnable diffi- 
culties of Teutonic idioms, in which she speedily acquir- 
ed so great a proficiency, that Leschen from time to time 
exclaimed, “ De marvellous creature ! der wonderful ge- 
nius! mein goot madame, your intellect is — oh! mein 
heafens ! all von grand astonishment — oh, yes indeed ! 
I do feel moche surprise at de most wonderful and pon- 
derous brain you do haf, for to conceive tings wid 
quickness, and to retain dem wid certainty.” 

Lady Jacintha was startled and chagrined at these enco- 
miums, but her ladyship’s fears were increased as the 
Baron’s praises occasionally assumed a more tender and 
equivocal character, such as, “ oh ! mein heafens, how 
rare do we see such woman ! Mein goot lady, it is de 
mighty and colossal pleasure, yes indeed ! to haf you 
fora pupil.” And then would follow some amatory or 
encomiastic verses from Schiller, or Goethe, or Winders- 
pohl, the tendency of which was not the less clearly in- 
telligible to the jealous apprehension of Lady Jacintha, 
that she did not understand one syllable of the language 
in which they were uttered ; for the Baron’s raptured 
gaze on his “ marvellous pupil,” and his softened, con- 
scious cadence, were all, all, too explanatory. 

Mrs. Mersey soon discovered, in the progress of her 
literary intercourse with Leschen, that the Baron was a 
passionate admirer of all the legendary tales of Germany, 
with their mixture of historical interest, and the mystic 
machinery of demons and wizzards. 

“ You haf some fine old castell here in Ireland. Now, 
I nefer hear you tell any wonderful, terrible legend about 
dem — legend dat would make, — yes indeed, mine most 
excellent pupil, — dat would make your fleshes creep, 
creep, creep, as if thousand mouse vas runningober your 
body. Not dat I beliefs dese ting — oh no ! dat vould be 
not philosophe— *but we do beliefs dem for de vat you 


THIS HUSBAND-HUNTER 59 

do calls illusion , — yes, — just as we do beliefs scene on 
de stage, or any oder fantasies.” 

- Mrs. Mersey having ascertained the Baron’s legendary 
taste, next occupied her genius in devising the most ef- 
fective mode in which it could be gratified. 

Ere long, an exploratory visit was proposed by Lady 
Jacintha to the ruined castle of Glen Minnis; in which, 
as our readers will remember, the Mordaunts, O’Connor, 
and O’Sullivan, had passed such a jovial night. Her 
ladyship’s object in proposing this excursion, was avow- 
edly to gratify the Baron’s antiquarian predilections ; 
and she said so many pretty and flattering things, and 
evinced such a sympathy of taste with Leschen, that the 
fears of any rival less accomplished than the dexterous 
widow, might well have been excited. 

“ Now she thinks that this visit to Glen Minnis will 
afford her a magnificent field-day,”— such were Mrs. 
Mersey’s reflections, — “ but I shall turn her artillery 
against herself. She may rave about waterfalls, and oak 
copse, and mountains — but 1 ” 

The party set oft' in Prince Gruffenhausen’s vrowtchsk, 
and consisted merely of the Lady Jacintha, Mrs. Mer- 
sey, the Baron, and the Fatalist. Notwithstanding his 
highness’s affectation of indifference, his attention was al- 
ways excited by the remnants of ancient fortifications ; 
and he surveyed with considerable interest the moul- 
dering fragments of bastions and outworks, of which the 
foundations were, in many parts, all that remained, 
around the lofty keep, or central tower of Glen Minnis. 

“ Dis is fery fine ruins ; fery fine indeet !” said Les- 
chen. 

“ And the scenery,” said Lady Jacintha, “ is bold and 
striking.” 

“ Fery bold, and fery striking indeet. Ach ! but a 
castell like dis, or not half as better as dis, vould haf its 
own legend on de bank of de Rhine. But in Ireland 
you haf marvellous lack of dese history. Now, I vould 
give goot golden coin to know all about dis place, — yes, 
indeed ! and who builded it, and who lived here, and 
what broke down dat great rent all down from de top to 
de bottom of dat tower.” 


<50 


TfiE HUSBAND^HUNTEiL 


“ You shall know, my dear Baron,” said Mrs. Mersey, 
“ without its costing you one golden coin ; I have lately 
been collecting the history of this castle from several 
authentic sources ; and 1 have woven a portion of it into 
a tale, which I flatter myself will interest you a little; 
and which I hope I shall have your assistance at a future 
period to translate into German.” 

“ Mein excellent pupils !” cried Leschen, his eyes 
sparkling with delight, “and when shall I haf de habbi- 
ness to see dis histories 

“ This instant, if you like,” replied the widow, pro- 
ducing her manuscript ; “ I brought it, as I thought its 
effect would be enhanced by my reading it for you in the 
midst of the scene to which the story refers.” 

“ Delightful !” exclaimed Lady Jacintha, who had ac- 
quired too much tact , from Mrs. Mersey’s example, to 
allow her vexation to appear ; “ and who was the an- 
cient proprietor of this castle?” 

“ It belonged to a singular character, the Lady Hono- 
ria O’Sullivan, who lived in the reign of Elizabeth ; an 
ancestress of the handsome young O’Sullivan, who danc- 
ed with Lucinda Nugent at your fancy ball.” 

The party took their seats on a stone bench, and Mrs. 
Mersey began to read for their amusement, her 

LEGEND OF GLEN MINNIS. 

“ lx was beneath the glowing noontide sun of one of 
the .-hottest days in Ju ne, 1602, that the gallant, gay , and 
handsome Gerald Fitz-Walter, attended by a few of 
his retainers, journeyed onwards to Cork, through a wide 
and healthy plain in Imokilly. Fitz-Walter was nearly 
•related to Sir George Carew, the Lord President of Mun- 
ster, in virtue of which connexion, he assumed consid- 
erable state, especially when traveling. Among his more 
favored attendants were the two Fitz-Johns ; of whom 
the elder, Gilbert, was directed by Sir George Carew to 
watch over his youthful relative, and supply his want of 
prudence by his own experience. The younger brother, 
John Fitz-John, resembled Gerald Fitz-Walter in the 
leading features of his character : .the same ardent love 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 61 

of adventure, the same contempt of danger, the same 
extravagant impetuosity, distinguished both. 

Gerald, oppressed by the heat, had thrown the bridle 
on his horse’s neck, and loosened his attire to enjoy what- 
ever breath of air might wave along the sultry plain ; 
a look of heated languor pervaded his face ; and his 
graceful form, expert in all the warlike and courtly ex- 
ercises of the age, seemed listless and enervated. The 
plain through which they traveled, afforded no shelter 
from the burning ray, and Fitz-Walter interrupted an 
erudite discourse on hawking, with which John Fitz-John 
was trying to amuse him, by pointing his attention to a 
distant part of the horizon, where a wood of ancient 
trees appeared. 

“ ‘ There is shade enough yonder, I wot,’ said Gerald, 
e if we only could reach it. Spur forward, John, and 
see if thou canst not find some place whereat we may 
refresh ourselves.’ Instantly John prepared to obey this 
mandate, when Gilbert approached, and in a low tone 
stated to Fitz-Walter, that as they were nowin the terri- 
tory of the hostile seneschals of Imokilly (the Fitz-Ge- 
ralds), it were better not to divide their small party. 
‘John,’ continued Gilbert, ‘hath a better hand than 
head, and if made prisoner, the varlet’s wagging tongue 
may peradventure betray us, so as to risk the safety of 
us all. 

« ‘ Made prisoner?’ repeated Gerald haughtily, * and 
who shall dare to make him prisoner ? Is May so long 
passed, that my Lord President’s name is forgotten in 
these parts ? credit me, Gilbert, that if the kerne should 
dare to meddle with John, nay, if they but dare to wag 
a finger at him discourteously, the best head that ever 
sat upon the shoulders of a Geraldine shall answer it. 
What? dost think the kerne have brazen bodies, to 
fight beneath this sweltering sun ? Would that 1 had 
had their sense to abide beneath the shade, and not 
to have taken horse till eventide.’ 

“ ‘ Heaven forbid,’ returned Gilbert, ‘that you, or any 
of my lord’s near kin, should journey on this ground 
in the eventide.’ 

“ ‘ Gilbert, thou art fainthearted. Are not my Lord 

vol. i. 6 


62 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER, 


President’s forces dispersed throughout this neighbor- 
hood V 

“ ‘ Yes ; but that is no surety against ambush. 5 

“‘Cast fear away from thee, Gilbert — thou art over- 
fanciful/ said John Fitz-John. 

“ ‘ Tush, foolish boy,’ replied his elder brother. ‘ I 
bethink me now, I have been a constant dweller in this 
vicinage since the year of grace 1580; and truly I opine 
I should therefore know its dangers somewhat better 
than thou canst.’ 

“ Fitzwalter gave John a private signal to disregard 
the prudent admonitions of his brother Gilbert; and he 
accordingly spurred forward his steed in the direction 
already pointed out, without awaiting any further reply 
from Gilbert. 

“ The party still continued slowly to advance, Fitz- 
Walter being amused with the reproachful glances with 
which Gilbert occasionally ventured to regard him. In 
less than an hour John returned. 

“‘You have seen her?’ whispered Gerald mysteri- 
ously. 

“‘I have kissed her fairy feet — Oh, Sir, 1 never gaz- 
ed on such transcendant beauty — if your wooing pros- 
pers, you will be supremely fortunate. 5 

“ Gilbert frowned upon the whisperers, whose collo- 
quy, he doubted not, concerned some wild frolic which 
he could not approve of. He continued to preserve a 
sullen, moody silence, until they reached the wood, near 
the verge of which was a rude sheafing, or hut, construct- 
ed of green branches, and thatched with heath. This 
wigwam appeared to have been recently deserted by some 
of the Irish,, for bones, and the fragments of festivity lay 
scattered around. In a corner was piled a considerable 
quantity of hay, of which the provident Gilbert gladly 
availed himself for the horses of the party. As he watch- 
ed the animals while feeding, he took occasion to entreat 
that Fitz-Walter would not separate from him, and plead- 
ed the danger which his experience had taught him to 
connect with these woody defiles. Fitz-Walter smiled, 
and the moment that Gilbert’s attention was otherwise 
occupied, he quitted the hut unobserved ; and, attended 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


63 


by John Fitz-John, who acted as guide on the occasion, 
descended an adjoining dell, through a steep and narrow 
crevice in the overhanging rock, and after following the 
empty channel of a brook for nearly a quarter of a mile, 
reached a low, natural arch in the rock, to which John 
immediately directed his attention. 

“ c This is the entrance to her dwelling/ said John. 

“ ‘ John,’ said Fitz-Walter gravely, ‘ shall I enter ? I 
do confess to thee, that I feel, for the first time in my 
life, some slight touch of fear. Thou knows J t that we 
have heard strange things about her.’ 

“ ‘ My brave master/ answered John, ‘ I would not 
for the best horse I e’er saw, that any person else should 
behold you in this mood. What! after winning my 
Lord President’s permission to come on Gilbert’s expedi- 
tion, which he was marvellous ill inclined to grant, and 
after giving the slip to my ever-watchful brother, — to 
turn back when you reached the lady’s very door — Sir, 
every true gallant in the world would cry you shame for 
a craven hearted knight.’ 

“ £ I verily believe thee, John. But yet — Is the dame 
so very beautiful as men say V 

“ ‘ When you see her, Sir, you will confess that she 
is nature’s masterpiece. And she hath heard of you, 
and wearies till she sees you. 5 

“ ‘ I must go in/ said Fitz-Walter, ‘ it is my fate.’ 

“ They entered beneath the low browed arch, and soon 
found themselves in a natural chamber of considerable 
size, whose roof was supported by a ponderous stalactical 
pillar. The only inmates who at first appeared, were a 
page in a Spanish dress, and a beautiful girl, both engag- 
ed in preparing refreshments. The girl uttered an ex- 
clamation of surprise, on beholding Fitz-John. 

“ ‘ Surely, Petronilla, you are not surprised at our 
finding your haunt here?’ 

“ ‘ No, Fitz-John ; but I marvel at your boldness in 
venturing hither.’ 

“ ‘ It were boldness truly, if we came unasked/ repli- 
ed John. ‘ Commend this noble gentleman, master Ge- 
rald Fitz-Walter, to your noble lady, and tell her that he 
craves permission to approach her nobleness.’ 


64 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


66 Petronilla accordingly retired through an entrance 
that resembled a rich Gothic archway. 

“ The sound of a lute now mingled with the murmurs 
of a streamlet that flowed through the rock, and a voice 
of exquisite melody sang the following stanzas to a sim- 
ple, plaintive air ; 

‘Here, in this lonely cavey 
Far from man’s prying eye*, 

I list the bubbling wave 
That wanders by. 

‘And oft I think its stream^ 

So like man’s checquered state'. 

An emblem well may seem, 

Of human fate. 

‘Now, it flows smoothly past, 

In clear serenity, 

Reflecting in its breast 
Each rock and tree. 

‘ Eftsoones it wheels, anon ! 

In angry whirls of foam, 

And dashes madly on, 

To reach, its home. 

‘That home is Ocean wide, 

Beneath whose briny wave 
v The little streamlet’s tide 

Shall find its grave. 

‘ Thus fares weak man’s brief power, 

Upon Life’s eddying stream, 

Until the fated hour 
Dissolves his dream, 

8 And launches forth his hark 
Upon that mighty sea, 

Cheerless, unknown, and dark, 

Eternity ! 

.‘Then let us loye and liye, 

While live and love we may, 

Nought else a ray will give 
To our brief day.’ 

“ When the strain ceased, Petronilla returned, and 
courteously announced to Fitz-Walter that her mistress 
was ready to receive him. They entered a short passage, 
which led to a chamber somewhat circular in shape. In 
the centre of this apartment a stalactical column arose 
from the cool and sparkling water, which rushed, in a 
rapid stream of liquid crystal, through its channel in the 
floor of polished granite, and was afterwards lost amidst 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 65 

the mazy wildness of the dell. The branches of young 
oak and birch without, threw their waving shadows on 
the walls of the cave, as they quivered in the slightest 
breath of air; the delicious freshness and repose of ev- 
erything around, formed a delightful contrast with the 
fervid heat that Gerald had so recently endured on his 
journey through the sultry plains of Imokilly. Several 
bottles of rich Spanish wine stood cooling in the stream- 
let ; no unpleasing prospect to our youthful traveller.” 

“ Dat vas goot, fery goot,” interrupted Prince Gruffen- 
hausen, smacking his lips; “ dat goot wine is de better- 
most part of de story as I haf heard yet.” 

“ On a couch that fronted the entrance,” resumed 
Mrs. Mersey, “ reclined the Lady Honoria O’Sullivan, 
who put aside her lute on the approach of Gerald and 
Fitz-John, and rose to receive them. 

“ Gerald was accustomed to the bright array of beau- 
ties who graced the court of Elizabeth, but even their 
charms were eclipsed by the radiant loveliness of the 
Lady Honoria. She was evidently gratified at the silent 
homage of his admiration ; surprise, which partook of a 
feeling of awe, at her resplendent beauty, held him ac- 
tually mute and motionless for a very few moments ; 
when, recovering himself, he thanked her, with natural 
courtesy, for her gracious condescension in permitting 
him to visit her. 

“ Among the most beautiful of old Isaac Oliver’s ex- 
quisite miniatures, is that of the ‘ Dame of the Cave. 5 
In this she is represented as about eighteen, her fair com- 
plexion finely blended with carnation ; her eyes, of dark- 
est hazel, shaded by their long, soft, silken lashes, and 
her whole contour and features delicately Grecian. 
Even while gazing on the silent portrait, the spectator is 
compelled to acknowledge that 

‘ Those lovely lips, though mute, 

Tell an eloquent tale of love. 5 

“Her luxuriant chesnut hair had escaped from its 
confinement in a golden net, and partially shaded her 
bosom. 

“ ‘ Sit, noble Sir/ said the Lady Honoria, with the 

6 * 


66 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


air of a princess ; ‘ sit, and partake of some refreshment ; 
and you , Sir/ she added, turning to Fitz-John, ‘ you 
have traveled far and must needs feel weariness.’ 

“ ‘ My attendant, gracious lady/’ said Gerald Fitz- 
Walter, 4 will partake of Petronilla’s hospitality ; his 
quality beseems not your board .’ 

“ The Lady Honoria gracefully bent her head towards 
John, who immediately retired with Petronilla, grateful 
to his master for affording him, although somewhat at 
the expense of his dignity, so fair an occasion of further- 
ing his suit with the maiden. 

“ ‘ Methinks, lady/ said Fitz-Walter, c you lack not 
courage, thus to abide here in the vicinage of wild 
kerne, with so small means of defence in case of an in- 
cursion. But in you, this is not overmuch boldness ; 
for those charms which exercise despotic sway over all 
hearts, would even tame the wildest savages.’ 

“ ‘Nay, fair Sir, the boldness is on your part, in ven- 
turing hither so nearly unattended. For myself, I bear 
about me a talisman wherewithal I can ever charm down 
the rudeness of the wild kerne into fealty. But since 
the noble Fitz-Walter hath adventured thus much fora 
visit to the ‘ Lady of the Cave/ I were most ingrate, 
were I not to reward his bold venture as I best may.’ 

“ She took her lute, and renewing the strain which 
the entrance of Fitz- Walter had suspended, his soul 
was quickly imparadised in visions of elysium, by the 
dulcet notes of more than mortal melody.” 

“ But did he drink de goot Spanish wine?” asked 
Gruffenhausen. 

“ I must b%” said Mrs. Mersey, that your Highness 
will have patience ; he did partake of a most exquisite 
banquet, and drank largely of the wine that interests 
your curiosity so much. 

“ The hours sped rapidly upon the wings of mirth, 
and love, and music ; and ere evening closed, the lady 
gave Fitz-Walter a pressing invitation to visit her in the 
course of the ensuing week, at her castle of Kilcrovv, 
which crowned the steep crag whose name it bore, and 
beetled over the Atlantic, apparently as solid and as du- 
rable as the rock on which it stood. Gerald accepted 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


67 


the attractive invitation with alacrity, and bade farewell 
to his mysterious hostess; and followed by John Fitz- 
John; soon regained the verge of the wood, where Gil- 
bert had awaited his return with anxious apprehension. 

“ They proceeded to Cork, where they arrived on the 
following day. Fitz- Walter, impatient to visit the Lady 
Honoria, soon found a pretext for advancing further 
west, attended by his faithful John ; and they slacked 
not in their journey till they reached the ancient castle 
of Kilcrow. The castle could only be approached by 
water, for the pier that had formerly connected the high- 
land which it occupied with the neighboring mainland, 
was so broken and dilapidated as to be totally unavaila- 
ble for the purposes of communication. By water, then, 
Fitz- Walter approached ; and great was his astonish- 
ment, when, on announcing his name and quality to the 
porter, he received for answer, that the lady of the cas- 
tle knew of no such person, and could not possibly ad- 
mit unaccredited visitors. ‘ Beshrew my heart,’ he ex- 
claimed, ‘ here must be some strange mistake. I am 
Master Gerald Fitz-Walter, my friend, nephew to the 
Lord President of Munster; you have not delivered my 
name aright unto your noble mistress ; I am here to 
waitTipon her, by her special invitation.’ 

“Again was the name of the visitor transmitted to the 
Lady Honoria, and again did the lady refuse him admis- 
sion to her halls, declaring that she had never evenheard 
of such a person. 

“ Fitz-Walter, stung with the insult, returned to his 
boat, when, on passing the angle of the castle, a billet 
was dexterously flung into his lap from a loop-hole in the 
wall. He opened it, and read as follows : — 

“ 4 Come to-night ; there be those here in whose pre- 
sence I could not have dared to admit you. Moor your 
bark beneath the casement to the west of the round-tow- 
er. A slight serenade will tell me when to aid you from 
the boat ; I shall need this, for 1 cannot watch at the 
casement. And do you, fair Sir, fear nought ; for the 
sentinels will be deep in the carouse for two hours after 
midnight.’ 

“Overjoyed at this flattering billet, Fitz-Walter was 


68 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


punctual in keeping the appointment it contained. The 
rock on which the castle stood had been hollowed by the 
ceaseless workings of the ocean into a stupendous arch, 
beneath which the little bark of the adventurous Gerald 
was moored at midnight. 

“ The dark form of the solitary pilot might soon be 
seen stealing up the rock, under the huge black walls of 
the fortress, which flung their sullen shadow on the wa- 
ter, on whose waves the moonlight elsewhere sported in 
ten thousand glorious sparks of rippling silver. 

“Fitz-Walter stood beneath the casement which the 
billet had described ; he saw that its lattice was open ; 
no taper burned within, and uncertain whether its fair 
inmate still watched his approach, or had consigned her- 
self to slumber, hechaunted forth the following serenade, 
in tones of rich, expressive tenor : — 

{ Bright the moon shines o’er the wave, 

As I guide my bark to thee ; 

Love ! thy shadowy slumbers leave, 

And look upon the quiet sea. 

{ Soft visions now, with potent spell, 

Surround thy couch at midnight hour, 

And music’s wild and fitful swell 

Enchains thy soul with magic power. 

‘Oh! be thy dream of peace and bliss. 

Of smiling eyes, and features bright, 

Of bowers sweet, a lover’s kiss, — 

Visions of harmony and light. 

‘ Yet, wake from slumber, love * and see, 

Beneath the moonlit summer skies, 

Him who would dangers brave for thee, — 

Awake thee, love ! arise ! arise !’ 

“ In reward for the lover’s serenade, a ladder of ropes 
was forthwith suspended from the casement ; and a soft 
voice above, sweetly uttered the delightful words, £ Wel- 
come, dearest Gerald.’ 

“ In the midst of his ecstacies, he could not avoid ob- 
serving that the ladder of ropes appeared as if it had seen 
service ; but stifling all emotions of suspicion, he ascend- 
ed to the lady’s apartment, which was fitted up in a style 
of luxurious magnificence that the rude and stormworn 
exterior of the castle never could have led him to expect. 
The lady placed her finger on her lips, and taking Ge- 


'THE HL T SBAN3>HUNTEfL 


69 


raid’s hand, conducted him to a gallery, which was close- 
ly curtained with the richest crimson damask. Gently 
raising a fold of the curtain, Gerald looked down upon 
a large and lofty hall, superbly lighted ; its floor was 
thronged with persons whose appearance bespoke wealth, 
and rank, and splendor: but Gerald soon observed that 
the revelers were principally foreigners ; and from their 
rich and grave attire, and proud and solemn bearing, he 
concluded that, at least, the greater number were Span- 
iards. They conversed with each other apart, in groupes 
of two or three, and with an air of energetic earnestness 
that seemed to intimate that the subjects in debate were 
of the last importance. When Gerald had gazed upon 
the stately throng, he was led by the Lady Honoria to 
the chamber into which he had at first been admitted, 
and the lady put in requisition all her powers of unrival- 
ed enchantment, to make the hours pass delightfully. 
She conversed, she sang, she extracted from the 
chords of her lute the most entrancing harmony; and 
when dawn arrived, and the household were sunk in 
slumber, Gerald was dismissed to his bark, and departed 
with his whole soul rapt in a wild and bewildering whirl 
of ecstacy, that scarcely left him consciousness sufficient 
to mind his footing on the well-worn and slippery ladder. 

“ The following night Gerald repeated his visit to the 
Lady Honoria ; but he never again returned from the 
castle, which was soon besieged and taken by a foreign 
foe. 'His fate is involved in total darkness; whether he 
died in the defence of the fortress, or whether he escap- 
ed, his trusty follower, Fitz-John, was unable to discover. 

“ The Lady Honoria was next heard of at her castle 
of GlenMinnis; and surprise, not unmixed with awe, 
was excited in the mind of Fitz-John, who had many 
opportunities of watching her motions, by her numerous, 
sudden, and secret transitions from the castle to the cave, 
and from the cave to the castle ; especially as the dis- 
tance exceeded forty miles, and rail-roads and steam- 
coaches were then, as now, alike unknown among Mile* 
sian hills and defiles. 

“ < Your lady is a strange and awful dame/ Fitz-John 


70 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


once ventured to say to Petronilla ; 4 and I often have 
misdoubtings about my poor master . 5 

44 4 He is not the first who hath gone the same road 
answered Petronilla, impressively. 

44 4 Merciful heaven ! hath he then had foul practice]’ 

44 4 I enjoin thee everlasting silence on this matter,’ an- 
swered Petronilla ; 4 only this do I say, that I would not 
live another hour with my lady, only that a powerful 
spell constrains me, that thou wotst not of.’ 

44 4 But my noble master, Gerald Fitz- Walter? Out 
upon thee, wench ! I will speak.’ 

44 4 For the love of heaven, do not, John, unless thou 
wouldst see me dead. Thou can’st not recall the noble 
gentleman’s life, and thy tongue might cost me mine.’ 

44 John Fitz-John was horror-stricken, but his love for 
Petronilla kept him silent. 

44 Years, long years, passed away. The Lady Hono- 
ria was absent from Glen Minnis, and many persons said 
that she had gone to Spain. The old seneschal of the 
castle died ; he was succeeded by his son, who died in 
his turn, and was again succeeded by another. Still, 
whoever died, no one heard of the Lady Honoria’s death ; 
although generations passed away, all the orders address- 
ed to the members of the household were still transmit- 
ted in her name. Two monarchs were successively gath- 
ered to their fathers ; another was cruelly murdered by 
a parricidal faction, and his race was expelled from Bri- 
tain : the usurper, who succeeded him, also passed away, 
and joy filled the empire at the prospect of the restora- 
tion of the ancient dynasty. It was at this period, — 
nearly sixty years from the time of the Lady Honoria’s 
departure from Ireland, that her ladyship’s return to 
Glen Minnis was spoken of. At length a day was fixed, 
and the lady arrived at the castle, surrounded by a splen- 
did train. 

44 4 Now, so may heaven help me at my need,’ exclaim- 
ed the porter of the castle, in astonishment, 4 but my la- 
dy must be either a saint or a devil. Trow ye not she is 
reputed ninety years of age, and here she comes, with a 
akin as fair, and a face as young — Blessed saints ! she 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 71 

does not seem older than eighteen, and is of a most rare 
and surpassing comeliness, withal. 3 

“ ‘ Hush, rash youth/ replied the wary old seneschal, 
to whom the remark was addressed, ‘ let not the stone 
walls hear thee touch upon that matter. 1 am an old 
man now, and have been an inmate of this castle since 
my childhood, and yet never saw I my lady. Ninety 
years? — ay, and ninety more on the back of that. Seal 
thy lips, Yamon — thy lady hath danced galliards and 
corrantoes in the court of King Henry the Seventh — 
but seal thy lips, I charge thee.’ 

“ By those who claimed an acquaintance with that 
mystic art ‘ that none may name / it was rumored that 
the Lady Honoria O’Sullivan was an adept in its dark- 
est practices; the story readily gained credence, sup- 
ported, as it was, by her ladyship’s protracted possession 
of her youthful charms, long, long after her contempo- 
raries had fallen, one by one, beneath the reckless hand 
of death. However, as the great world was then as 
indifferent as in later ages, to infernal agency, Glen 
Minnis continued the resort of the titled and the gay. 

u One delicious day in spring, when the soft languor 
of the air, and the humming of unnumbered insects, 
produced a soporific effect upon the idle votary of plea- 
sure, the lady of the castle retired to her latticed bow- 
er, where she was engaged in the matin amusements of 
the times, with a numerous party. This apartment 
was situated next a small tiring-room, in the eastern 
tower of the castle — it was lighted by a high and nar- 
row casement.” — [Look, Baron Leschen, yonder is the 
very casement] : “ and its gloomy appearance was in- 
creased by the black, yawning chimney, whose recess 
was reflected in a mirror that occupied a grim and mas- 
sive frame of native oak, carved in such forms 

‘As the fancy feigns, but fears to think on.’ 

The Lady Honoria was engaged in lively conversation 
with her guests, when a domestic entered, and informed 
his mistress that a stranger of remarkable appearance 
desired to speak with her. How he had entered the 
castle was unknown, for the porter had refused him ad- 


THE IIUSBANH-HUNTER. 


72 

mission at the gate, and he had departed, apparently 
without any intention of returning. Surprise soon per- 
vaded the festive company, when the lady of the castle, 
rising from her seat, desired the domestic, in a tone of 
imperious command, to inform the mysterious visitant 
that she could not, for some hours, have leisure to admit 
him to an audience. 

“ The servant retired, but re-appeared in an instant, 
with a message from the stranger, to the effect that if 
the Lady Honoria did not instantly comply with his re- 
quest, he must seek her in the midst of her associates, 
as his business was too urgent to brook delay. 

. “ ‘ Noble lady,’ said Sir Geoffry Pelham, a distin- 
guished English knight, 4 this stranger’s message is too 
insolent. Is it your ladyship’s pleasure that I go out, 
and take order that he be scourged from the castle V 

“ 4 No, brave Sir,’ returned the lady; ‘since he in- 
sists on an immediate audience, I will grant it, and get 
rid of him as soon as I may.’ 

“ And the Lady Honoria quitted the apartment, 
leaving her guests in a state of suspense which the 
darkening atmosphere around increased to lively awe ; 
sulphureous clouds obscured the face of day ; the 
floodgates of heaven seemed opened ; a lambent flame 
was emitted from the dusky mirror, and played upon its 
surface ; peals of thunder shook the castle to its lowest 
donjon vaults ; the wall of the tow r er was rent from its 
summit to its base by the bright electric bolt ; and the 
noxious exhalations, which floated through the gloom, 
increased the horror of the scene. 

“ An hour thus elapsed ; and the terrified party, who 
awaited the return of their hostess with anxious eager- 
ness, desired an attendant to seek out the Lady Honoria. 
The darkness began to disperse, and the more courageous 
guests accompanied the domestic to the apartment where 
the lady of the castle had received the mysterious stran- 
ger. 

“ There a corpse was found. It w r as that of an aged, 
withered female, attired in the gay and youthful garb 
which the Lady Honoria had worn, when she left her 
guests not an hour before. On her wrinkled, skinny fin^ 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


73 


ger, glowed a sparkling gem, which had, that very morn- 
ing, elicited the admiration of many of the thoughtless 
groupe ; it was a ring, bestowed by Sir Geoffry Pelham, 
to propitiate her smiles. What were the feelings of the 
knight, as he gazed upon the form he had sought so re- 
cently to possess ! Not a trace remained of the tran- 
scendant beauty that had graced the castle halls that 
morning. 

“ The domestic who first announced the arrival of the 
stranger, had ventured to look through a crevice in the 
door of the apartment to which the Lady Honoria had 
retired to receive him. His swarthy visage expanded to 
a fearful size, and assumed a demoniac expression, as he 
held to the lady an hour-glass. Her cheek blanched 
with terror, and some words were exchanged in a lan- 
guage of which the domestic was ignorant ; but he could 
give no account of what subsequently passed, as the 
darkening horrors of the scene deprived him of con- 
sciousness. 

“ The vapors which ‘ gramnrye* had conjured, disap- 
peared. The sultry air of May was refreshed by the 
commotion of the elements ; the broad, bright sun shone 
out in golden splendor : and smiling nature wore her 
freshest garb, unconscious of the mighty elemental war 
through which a fallen spirit had departed to the horrors 
of a dark and drear eternity. 

“ The heir of the Lady Honoria deserted the Castle 
of Glen Minnis, which was suffered to crumble to decay. 
His descendants ultimately settled in a distant part of 
the kingdom.” 

“ Pofe 1” exclaimed Prince Gruffenhausen, when Mrs. 
Mersey had finished the perusal of her tale, “ dat is goot 
story enough, only dat I tink it is a little too long.’* 

“ Too long i” repeated Leschen, “ oh, how can your 
highness say dat ? Mein heafens! what genius! what 
great, big, huge talents l” and finding his knowledge of 
English altogether inadequate to furnish phrases expres- 
sive of his enthusiastic admiration, the Baron had re- 
course to his native German. “ Ach ! welche eine 
ubersteigende naturgabe! welche eine bezaubernde weib ! 
O ! welches reitzende talentvolles frauenzimmer J ,; 

VOL* I. 7 


74 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ Really,” said Lady Jacintha, with a smile of the 
most generous approval, “ your story is delightful. Will 
you, dear Mrs. Mersey, give me a copy of it, as a very 
particular favor ? I am exceedingly anxious to have it 
in my album ?” 

Mrs. Mersey graciously acquiesced ; and Prince Gruf- 
fenhausen resumed his critique on her legend. “ I do 
not moche like dat notion of de old, bad, wicked wo- 
mans, living one hundred and eighty year, and looking 
as beautiful and fresh as a yungfrau. Den dese devil, 
and wizard, — dese hexenmeister, — I don’t nefer beliefs 
dat der is no such ting at all ; no, indeed.” 

Leschen remarked, aside, to Mrs. Mersey, that his Se- 
rene Highness was one of the most superstitious mortals 
in existence, and that his mind was thoroughly imbued 
with all the mysterious doctrines of the Rosicrucians ; 
and that his belief in the prognostics of dreams was so 
full and undoubting, that he kept a dreambook, in which 
he regularly minuted, each morning, the shadowy omens 
of the night, wdth the view of comparing their mysteri- 
ous “ signs and portents,” with their actual accomplish- 
ment. 

Meanwhile, the party diverged from the castle, in or- 
der to examine the adjoining buildings; and the Prince’s 
military predilections led him to those remnants of the 
edifice which wore the appearance of having once been 
fortified. 


CHAPTER VIII. 


Such were the thoughts that swelled his breast, 

And each high feeling was expressed. 

Bkowne. 

The day on which our antiquarian party visited the 
ruins of Glen Minnis Castle, was the same that had been 
fixed for O’Sullivan Lyra’s departure for Martagon. The 
Nugents had returned there from Knockanea some days 
previously. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


75 


“ I will ride part of the way with you,” said Father 
O’Connor; “ we will not probably meet again for a long 
time, and I like to enjoy as much as I can of your con- 
versation.” 

As they were going to mount their horses, an old man 
appeared, leading up an elderly woman ; and approach- 
ing O’Connor, lie imploringly said, 

“Won’t your reverence jiTst try your hand at the 
cure ?” 

“ Impossible,” replied O’Connor ; “ I have fifty 

times told you I can work no cure.” 

“ What cure? Who is to be cured ?” asked O’Sul- 
livan. 

“ This ould woman, plase your honor,” said the men- 
dicant. “ Ah now, your handsome honor,” (coaxingly,) 
“ do just put in a word for poor ould Molly with his rev- 
erence.” 

“ A word for poor old Molly ?” repeated O’Sullivan, 
while O’Connor stood looking on and laughing ; “ Why, 
what is to be done ?” 

“ Just coax his reverence to work a maracle on Molly, 
to restore her to her speech ; she has been stone-dumb, 
poor crature, for fifteen years come May-day next.” 

Why, how can 1 work miracles, you silly old fellow ?” 
said O’Connor; “ how often must I tell you I have no 
such power ?” 

“ Barny O’Guggerty would not believe the world but 
your honor’s reverence could do it if you liked.” 

“ A mad beggarman,” said the priest, turning to O’- 
Sullivan, “ has persuaded this man that I am possessed 
of miraculous powers ; and ever since he has taken this 
idea into his head, he has incessantly been tormenting me 
to restore speech to his wife.” 

“ Ah, your raverence, just thry your hand at the ma- 
racle ; do , your honor’s raverence, as far as you can.” 

“ Why, how do you know but if 1 worked the miracle 
of curing Molly, you old fool, and set her tongue once 
going, you’d give your eyes to get me to work the coun- 
ter miracle of making her dumb again ? When your wife 
is quiet, my good friend, 1 would advise you, by all 
means, to keep her so.” 


76 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“Ogh no, your honor’s reverence; just set her talk- 
ing once, and I ’ll be the happy man.” 

“ Very well,” said O’Connor, with a lurking smile of 
humor, “ I ’ll do my best.” 

Accordingly the priest re-entered the kitchen, and 
turned every person out of it excepting old Molly, and 
O’Sullivan, who felt curious to witness the success of the 
miraculous experiment. “Now I need not tell you,” 
said O’Connor, “ that 1 know I ’ll fail ; but it will free me, I 
trust, for the future, from this disagreeable importunity.” 

There was a poker heating in the fire, and when it 
was red hot, O’Connor seized it, and making a feint to 
run at Molly, who was sitting on a straw boss by the fire, 

“ Talk now, you old goose !” he exclaimed, “ or I ’ll 
run this red hot poker down your throat !” 

“ Oh, ogh, ough — heaven preserve us !” roared out 
Molly. 

“ By all that ’s comical, you ’ve worked the cure !” ex- 
claimed O’Sullivan, in utter astonishment. 

“ By all that ’s comical, I have !” exclaimed the priest. 

Such was the fact. The influence of the strong and 
sudden shock of fear upon the nervous system had ac- 
tually loosened the organs of articulation, which had for 
so long a period been bound up ; and Molly was elo- 
quent in her professions of gratitude. “ Now that ’s very 
well so far,” observed O’Connor ; “ but the worst of it 
is, that my sanative abilities will henceforth acquire such 
celebrity, that every old woman with a tooth-ache will 
insist on my putting them in requisition ; and red hot 
pokers, you know, are not medicine for every case*. 

They now mounted their horses, and, attended by the 
everlasting Bonaparte Howlagan, who followed them on 
foot, keeping up with the pace of the steeds in a long- 
breathed swinging trot, they pursued their pace through 
the hills for some miles, until the noble bay of Dun- 
manus at length broke upon their sight ; a magnificient 
sheet of water, nearly fifteen miles in length from its in- 
land extremity to the harbor’s mouth. The hills that 
bordered its shores were bolder, higher, and far more 


* This circumstance is fact ; I had it from the lips of the worthy and faco-» 
tious old priest who officiated as Thaum aturgqs on the occasion. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


77 


abrupt than any of those through which they had hither 
to traveled. 

O’Connor slackened his horse’s pace, to converse with 
a parishioner who wanted to speak with him apart, and 
while he was thus occupied O’Sullivan entered into con- 
versation with Bonaparte. 

“ You are always in attendance on the priest, I think ?” 

“ Not always, Sir, but I am very often, and I wish I 
was oftener ; it would have kept me out of a power of 
mischief, any way.” 

“ How so ?” 

“ Bekase, your honor, I had always, — may heaven for- 
give me ! — a sad trick of fighting at fairs, and his raverence 
has preached himself hoarse to me about it ; and I like to 
keep near him, for somehow, when I do, I don’t feel so 
wickedly inclined.” 

“ But what on earth tempts you to engage at anytime 
in so barbarous and unchristian a practice?” 

“ I don’t know on earth, Sir ; it ’s bekase it ’s my timp- 
tation, I suppose ; just as one man likes drinking, and 
another likes cockfighting. It ’s wicked, and devilish, I 
know, but for the life of me I could not keep quiet if I 
saw a nate bothering bit of a fight going on, and had a 
grip of Bans garni Soggarth — I couldn’t but wheel ' 9 ( i. 
e. flourish my stick) “among the best of them.” 

“ Then I hope that you abstain from fairs, and factions, 
since a skirmish has such powerful temptations for you ?’’ 

“ Troth then I do ; I keep out of the way, and that ’s 
the only thing that saves me.” 

“ You do right, since nature has given you such a bad 
and savage heart, to abstain from scenes that would ex- 
cite its evil dispositions.” 

“ Troth, Sir, you just named it right ; it is a bad and 
savage heart ; but it once was worse than it is, by odds ; 
and all I ’ve for it is to pray to God to mend it.” 

O’Sullivan mused on the strange variety of human 
character that this peasant presented to his observation ; 
a temper naturally wild and ferocious, which its owner 
was trying to subdue by Christian discipline. A strong 
warfare still subsisted between the originally evil propen- 
sity, and the influence of awakened conscience ; and, as 
7* 


78 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


often occurs in such contests, the dominant vice would 
occasionally overcome the restraints by which it had not 
yet been sufficiently schooled to obedience. 

“ Poor Boney,” said the priest to O’Sullivan, “ it is a 
great pity that his character should be stained with such 
a terrible propensity ; the savage creature has his virtues 
too. He is honest and honorable, strictly observant of 
all his engagements and promises ; and, excepting his 
pugnacious dispositions, has in general been a moral and 
well conducted man. But that blot, I trust in God, will 
be henceforth removed from his character.” 

O’Sullivan’s attention was arrested by the wild scenery, 
which at every step was presented in a different point of 
view, from the picturesque inequalities of the country. 
Cultivated spots appeared here and there interspersed 
through the broken, hilly waste. The parish church of 
Durrus, and the neat and compact glebe house of the 
Protestant rector, occupied a rising ground overhanging 
the upper end of the bay, where the water narrowed to 
a point. The thatched, whitewashed cottage of the par- 
ish priest of Durrus, embosomed in its snug and thriving 
orchard, stood further inland among verdant meadows. 
At the distance of some miles along the bay, were visible 
the ancient castles of Dunbeacon and Dunmanus almost 
verging on the water’s edge. 

“ Those castles/’ said O’Connor, “ were formerly in- 
habited by hardy buccaneers, who retired to enjoy the 
profits of their dangerous and stormy occupation on 
these desolate shores. As one gazes on their roofless 
walls, the mind irresistibly reverts to the wild wassail, the 
rude license, of which those abodes have been formerly 
the scene: and one painfully contrasts the riotous festiv- 
ity of other days with the deathlike stillness that now 
prevails in the long deserted edifices.” 

“ What building is that?” asked O’Sullivan, “ w'hose 
tall, old shafted chimneys rise out of yonder grove of lof- 
ty trees ?’’ 

“That is Four-Mile Water,” answered O’Connor;, 
“and, antiquarian as I am, I know little of it save what 
Smith tells us in his History of Cork ; namely, that it was 
once a place of some strength, and was built by a branch 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


79 


of the M‘Carthys. The M‘Carthys lost that, with other 
possessions, in the great civil war; and their descendants 
struggled on, for no inconsiderable part of a century, in 
that doubtful class entitled 4 decayed gentry.’ I well re- 
collect the last of them who lingered in this neighbor- 
hood. He was an old, patriarchal-looking man, with 
snow white hair. He inhabited a cottage near Dunbea- 
con. He was as finely formed and athletic a fellow as I 
ever saw. The peasants around regarded him with no 
small feelings of affection and respect, to which his ex- 
cellent qualities appeared to entitle him well. He died 
at the age of ninety, irv the year — let me see — 1795,1 
think ; and he possessed to the very last, the buoyancy 
of spirits and the warmth of affection which more prop- 
erly belong to youth. Poor fellow ! he sometimes in- 
dulged in a sigh at the fallen fortunes of his house, but 
it was not a sigh of bitterness. When he died, there was 
less of the customary tumult of wakes , and more of deep 
and genuine feeling exhibited among the people, than, at 
that time, was usual on such occasions. His virtues and 
benevolence had made an impression on all 

“ Pray,” said O’Sullivan, “ was not he the interesting 
old man on whose death you confessed to me, yesterday, 
that you once made verses ?” 

“ He was,” said Father John, looking downwards with 
the becoming diffidence of authorship. 

16 Will you do me the favor to repeat them ? Fitzroy 
is not here, to take them down in short hand for his book, 
and 1 shall not laugh at detecting that your hatred of 
poetry was merely simulated.” 

“ Oh,” said O’Connor quickly, “ I never protested 
against short scraps of poetry ; it was your merciless 
bookfulls of clink, clank, clink, clank, that aroused my 
enmity.” 

“ But you must not escape from repeating your verses 
on McCarthy,” said O’Sullivan. 

The priest immediately commenced the recitation in a 
tone of unaffected feeling. 

“ I saw an old man laid within his shroud ; 

A placid smile sat on his lifeless face, 

Which, told the faith that cheered his dying hour, 


80 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


And lingered still, like some lone golden beam, 

Cast on the silent heaven at eventide. 

“His few thin hairs were snow-white, and his brow 
Still showed the wrinkles of life’s carking cares, — 

Cares that were ended and forgotten now! 

While children, and their children flocked around 
Their parent’s bier, and sobs unbidden told 
How well belov’d the soul that hence had fled. 

The open heart, the bounteous hand, were all 
Remembered in that sad and solemn hour. 

“ Yet why lament ? w’hy weep? His hour has come; 

The Christian has been gathered to his God. 

We weep not when the summer flowers fade — 

We weep not when the leaves of autumn fall, 

And strew with russet brown the forest glade — 

We weep not when the full-eared corn bends down 
Its golden load beneath the reaper’s sickle ; 

For the sweet flowers will blow again in spring ; 

In spring the trees will ope their soft green buds ; 

In spring the corn will push its tender shoots. 

“ Old man ! hast thou no spring ? Oh yes, thou hast! 

Thy spring is heaven, bright, glorious, and unfading. 

Hence thou hast gone, from hearts that loved thee well; 

Hence thou hast gone, from those, whose infant hours 
Thou watchedst with a parent’s tender care. 

“We weep, for sorrowing nature claims a tear; 

But, ’mid our tears a glow of hope ariseth, 

And we pour forth our souls in humble prayer, 

That heaven’s good and bounteous King may deign, 

For Jesus’ sake to bind anew those ties, 

In happier worlds, that death has broken here. 

“ Old man, farewell. Earth closes o’er thy form, 

To God we tremblingly commend thy spirit. 

O ! may we meet thee, when Eternity 
Unveils its awful wonders to our view.” 

Involuntary tears rose in the eyes of Father John, as 
the lines he repeated recalled to his memory the ancient 
friend of his early days. O’Sullivan tried, with very little 
tact indeed, to change the subject. 

“ No,” said Father John, “ let us speak of poor 
McCarthy. 1 earnestly hope,” he added, looking upwards, 
i( to meet him where we never will be separated. It is 
good for us, my young friend, to speak upon these sub- 
jects ; by keeping before us the evanescence of life, they 
teach us so to number our days that we may apply our 
hearts unto wisdom.” 

“Indeed it is good for us,” said O’Sullivan, solemnly. 
“ I received my poor old friend’s last breath,” .resum- 
ed O’Connor. “ Oh, it is a deeply, unspeakably awful 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


61 


hour, when the human soul, dismissed from her perisha- 
ble house of clay, appears in trembling nakedness before 
her God, to answer for all the deeds done in the body, — 
for every thought, every word, every action, from the 
first hour of dawning reason up to the moment of her 
exit from this world. Every sin, every frailty, minutely 
recorded in God’s book ! What a scrutiny ! And, O ! what 
inexpressible insanity in the children of the world, to 
live as if no such scrutiny awaited them !” 


CHAPTER IX. 


Is he, quoth I, a safe companion ? 
Devil is safe. 


Ay, answered Peter, safe no doubt, if the 
Stephen' Racket’s Adventures. 


“ Why, then plase your raverence,” said Bonaparte 
Howlaghan, “ I ’ll tell you a chap that lives much as if 
there was no judgment before him at all at all.” 

“ Whom do you mean, Boney ?” 

“Mr. Fitzroy Mordaunt ; a boy that can play tho 
qua re capers.” ^ 

“ Is it that foolish fellow ? I think you must mistake ; 
he seems to be a harmless, though somewhat impertinent 
coxcomb, who devotes his chief attentions to his draw- 
ings, and this book he means to write.” 

“ Troth, your raverence would be of another opinion, 
if you heard of some of his pranks.” 

“ Upon my word I must inquire into this. A guest 
in the parish-priest’s house, playing pranks in the parish, 
is not quite the most creditable thing in the world.” 

“ I should not wonder if Boney were right,” observed 
O’Sullivan, “ for, from two or three expressions which 
escaped Fitzroy, I should not be inclined to deem him a 
very strict moralist.” 

“ Indeed ?” said O’Connor, turning short round to 
O’Sullivan ; “ you should have told me this before.” 

“ Why, I thought that he scarcely would exhibit any 


82 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


of his frolics while his short stay at your house lasted ; 
but, judging from what he says of himself, the man is a 
confirmed libertine.” 

“ Oho ! then he shall soon get the turn-out. There 
is not a character,” continued O’Connor, writhing his 
features into an expression of superlative contempt, 
“ there is not a character so inexpressibly despicable as 
the libertine, the absurd scoundrel, who, while boasting 
of his liberty, is the bond-slave of his passions, instead 
of their master. There is not a puppy in existence, 
whose practical blunders are more outrageously egregri- 
ous than his ; the fellow seeks enjoyment by effecting 
the destruction of his health, and happiness by pursuing 
the broad road that leads down to hell. A pretty fellow, 
truly !” 

“ A thoroughbred donkey,” said O’Sullivan. 

“ My dear young friend,” resumed O’Connor, in a 
tone of affectionate counsel, “ you have had the inesti- 
mable advantage of a moral and religious education, 
which has hitherto been the means, under God, of pre- 
serving you from many of the nets in which the devil 
ensnares his miserable victims. May God of his infinite 
mercy continue to preserve you, my young friend ! You 
are going, you tell me, tu foreign countries ; and in your 
passage through the world you will meet with number- 
less emissaries of Satan, in the shape of dissipated 
youths, who, being entangled in the toils themselves, en- 
deavor to involve in vice all those who are as yet unsul- 
lied. Laughter is invariably their engine ; they will try 
to drive you out of what is right by ridicule. But re- 
member that the wretch does not deserve the name of 
man , who can be driven by an idiot laugh from the ser- 
vice of his God ; who can basely surrender the convic- 
tions of his reason and his conscience to the husky ca- 
chinnation of some profligate coxcomb’s half-decayed 
lungs. Remember, too, my man, that in the long run 
you will have the laugh at your own side — while they — 
Oh! God help them! one shudders to think of their 
fate ! Poor, wretched slaves of Satan, their laughter 
will be turned into wailing and gnashing of teeth, w’here 
the worm dieth not, and the fire is not quenched; — un- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


83 


less the grace of contrition and amendment be vouch- 
safed them, which may God of his infinite mercy grant.” 

Their roads now separated : O’Sullivan thanked the 
priest from the bottom of his heart for his counsel, and 
promised, with God’s help, to follow it to the best of his 
ability. 

“ Farewell, my dear young man,” said Father John ; 
“ keep God for your guide in all possible predicaments 
of life ; be faithful to that master ; 4 Remember thy 
Creator in the days of thy youth, when the evil days 
come not, nor the years draw nigh in which thou shalt 
have no pleasure.’ Farewell, dear O'Sullivan ; fare- 
well.” 

They shook hands with affectionate cordiality ; O’Sul- 
livan, attended by his servant, pursued the road to Mar- 
tagon, and O’Connor proceeded to visit a gentleman in 
the neighborhood, in order to transact some business. 

Bonaparte Hovvlaghan, left alone, returned homewards ; 
and in order to make amends for the time he had lost in 
escorting the equestrians, the athletic fellow scampered 
like a deer over hills and dales, bounding lightly across 
drains, ditches, brooks, and all the impediments that lay 
in his way. Onward he speeded, his rapid career un- 
checked by any obstacle ; and in less than an hour he 
had reached the old castle of Glen Minnis, which, as the 
reader will doubtless remember, Lady Jacintha and her 
party were exploring. It was just as her ladyship and 
Baron Leschen were expressing their delight at Mrs. 
Mersey’s legend, that Prince Gruffenhausen descended 
to the outworks of the castle in order to try if he could 
discover the remains of the fortifications. His Serene 
? Highnesss was picking his steps through a marshy patch 
of ground that immediately adjoined an outer town, the 
angle of which abutted on the very path, on which our 
i friend Howlaghan was careering with such headlong 
■ speed. 

Neither party saw the other, being hidden by the in- 
tervening angle of the tower, until both came in sudden 
and violent contact. The concussion upset his Highness 
as well as Boney, and they rolled down the steep rocky 
ledge, upon a carpet of the softest, greenest moss, that 

t; 


84 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


lay at its foot. Howlaghan got up, laughing at the in- 
cident, and extended his hand to assist the fallen Fatal- 
ist to rise. But Gruffenhausen was too highly incensed 
at his tumble, to accept the preferred aid ; he rose from 
the ground, cursing Howlaghan in German and English, 
and struck him a violent blow on the breast. 

“ What the devil sort of usage is this ?” exclaimed 
Boney, his ire greatly roused ; and clutching his alpeen 
in his left hand, he planted with his right a blow upon the 
princes’s ribs, that sent the Serene Man staggering over 
to the rocky bank. “ How dare you strike me?” roar- 
ed Boney, “ and I only offering civility V* 

“Mein goot friend,” said the Prince, whose taste for 
hostilities was very much diminished by the energetic 
emphasis of Boney’s blow, “it vas because I could not 
help it ; I does assures you dat it vas my destiny to strike 
you, mein goot peasant ; we are not de masters of our 
actions always — not at all ! it vas my most unlucky desti- 
ny ; oh, yes indeed !” 

“ By dad, then,” retorted Boney, “ it is my destiny to 
beat your bones as soft as pap, my man ;” and he squar- 
ed his huge arms at the terrified prince in an attitude of 
awful defiance. 

u Hold, hold — mein excellent friend,” said Gruffen- 
hausen in a deprecatory tone, “ not so fery fast — Hold ! 
hold ! I vil convince you, mein goot peasant, dat it is not 
your destiny to beat my bones as soft as de vat you call 
pap ; not at all — you do not knows who I am ; I am de 
Prince Ernest-Adolphus-Frederick Gruffenhausen, of the 
House of Krunks-Doukerstein.” 

“And J am Jerry Howlaghan of the house, or the 
cabin, of Gurthnahuckthee, son to ould Murtough, and 
namesake to all the Howlaghans ; a breed that never 
took a blow from king nor cat without paying back two 
in the place of it.” 

“Tousand tenfels !” exclaimed Gruffenhausen, his 
anger at Howlaghan’s undaunted freedom mastering his 
fear ; “you do not knows how to speak to von shentel- 
mans ; you are like a wild savages — mein heiligkeit !” 

“If I am like a wild savage,” retorted Howlaghan, 
“ *pon my conscience you We like a wild beast, with that 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTEF. 


85 


tundhering muff of hair upon your face — Troth it’s just 
like the big dirty bear the showman had. I ’ll tach you, 
Mr. Dolphus M‘Gruffus, how to aggravate civilized peo- 
ple with your impudence.” And Boney began io wheel 
Baus gaun Soggarth alarmingly. 

“Mein most excellent friend,” said the fatalist, whose 
indignant ire was again tamed down by fear, “ I told you 
dat I vould convince you dat it vas not your destiny — 
oh, no indeed ! to strike me or to beat me. Look at 
dat , mein friend ! look at dat, mein excellent peasant,” 
producing a guinea ; “ dere is a goot golden coin for you " 
to put into your pocket, and to go quiet away, widout 
not to beat me not at all.” 

“ Keep it, you poor ould spladhereen,” said Boney, 
making: a strong effort to control his passion, and march- 
ing off in transcendent disdain. “ On second thoughts 
I won’t strike you, and second thoughts, they say, are 
best. You ’ve got off’ dog cheap, this turn ; but pray 
take care how you lay violent hands on a Howlaghan of 
Gurthnahuckthee in a hurry again.” 

“ Mein peasant, I trust dat it vil not be mein destiny 
to do so,” replied Prince Gruffenhausen, “ but upon 
mine honest and true wort, I does assures you dat I could 
not help it.” 

But Boney was now out of hearing, and the fatalist 
was glad to get rid of him. “ Pofe !” he exclaimed, “ dat 
man is von big blackguard ; von fery grand blackguard 
indeet ! but I am glad dat he did not take de guinea at 
all event — pofe !” 

While Boney continues his rapid homeward course, we 
must relate the events which had been taking place for 
the last half-hour, in his cabin. 

Mr. Fitzroy Mordaunt had walked out, book in hand, 
after breakfast, and strolled leisurely along the banks of 
the river that flowed through Glen Minnis, until he 
reached the cottage of Gurthnahuckthee, the paternal 
abode of the Howlaghans. The external appearance, 
and interior neatness, of this mansion, had recently been 
very much improved beneath the auspices of Nancy 
Howlaghan, Bouey’s favorite sister, who had lately re- 
turned to reside at Gurthnahuckthee, from a visit to an 

VOL. i. 8 


8tf 


THE HtSBAND-HuNTEtt. 


uncle in a distant county. During her absence from 
home, which had been of considerable length, Nancy 
had acquired many new ideas, and among her acquisi- 
tions was an ardent taste for neatness and comfort, which 
had hitherto been scarce commodities at Gurthnahuck- 
thee. Within one short month, this active, bustling girl 
had achieved a valuable revolution in the domestic econ- 
omy of her brother’s house. She made him mend the 
broken thatch, and get the chimney cured of smoking; 
she effected the cleansing and white-washing of the din- 
gy, sooty walls; she had got the furniture repaired and 
painted ; and she had procured the erection of a separate 
abode for the pigs, who did not now, as formerly, par- 
take unreproved, the hospitality of the cottage kitchen. 
Boney gri/lhbled a little at these numerous and sweep- 
ing innovations ; but Nancy was so gentle, so obliging, 
so sweet-tempered, and affectionate, that he could not 
resist her entreaties, especially as her whole heart seem- 
ed set on her success. To wash the chairs, tables, and 
dresser, and to sweep up the floor, was every morning a 
task which Nancy performed with zeal and alacrity, be- 
fore she set about the duties of her own simple toilette. 
The day was then devoted to some one or other of the 
various branches of domestic industry. 

Fitzroy had seen her once or twice, and her appear- 
ance attracted his notice. He now entered her cottage, 
where he found her alone, sitting quietly knitting by the 
fire. 

“ Good morrow, Nancy,” said the learned tourist. 

“ Good morrow, Sir, and thank you kindly,” replied 
the maiden. 

“ You are always busy, I believe,” pursued the obser- 
vant visitor, bending his glance upon her knitting. 

“ No good is ever got by idleness,” quoth Nancy. 

“ She is devilish handsome,” ruminated the young 
gentleman. “ Pray, my girl, where’s your mother?” 

“ Dead, Sir, these two years, Lord be good to her.” 

“Poor woman ! Is your father dead too ?” 

“ No, Sir ; he ’s gone to the fair of Barna-Gowlauns, 
to sell pigs.” 

“ At what time will he be home ?” demanded Fitzroy. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


87 


<c He doesn’t live here, Sir ; he has given this farm to 
my brother Jerry ; he lives at the other farm, near the 
sea.” 

“ Jerry ] that ’s the stout young fellow they call Bona- 
parte 1” 

“The same, Sir. I wish,” thought Nancy, “ that the 
man would go away.” 

“ And where ’s Jerry to-day ?” demanded the inquisi- 
tive catechist. 

“ Gone to Father O’Connor’s.” 

Fitzroy cast a keen and scrutinizing glance about the 
cottage ; and, under the pretext of admiring the paint- 
ing of the dresser, he peeped into the inner apartment, 
the door of which adjoined the dresser, and ascertained 
that no person was there. He then walked out into the 
bavvn, or farm-yard, which was equally deserted, all the 
inmates of the cottage having, in fact, gone to the fair, 
with the single exception of Nancy. 

Having satisfied himself that Nancy was thoroughly 
unprotected, he returned to the cottage, and placing his 
chair by the girl, proceeded to pay her certain personal 
compliments, in a tone so little relished by the party to 
whom they were addressed, that Nancy rose from her 
seat, moved over to the opposite side of the fire-place, 
and entreated that her complimentary visitor would fa- 
vor her by quitting the cottage. 

But the gallant youth was not quite so easily got rid 
of. He also rose, and made an effort to encircle Nan- 
cy’s waist in his arms, when Nancy suddenly whisking 
from the fire a pot of boiling water, held it as a shield 
of defence before her person, loudly declaring that if he 
dared to lay a finger on her, the scalding contents of the 
pot should be instantly discharged at him. She had 
managed this defensive operation with such quickness 
and dexterity that Fitzroy was completely at fault, and 
he stood in an attitude of ridiculous perplexity, alternate- 
ly gazing at the maiden’s glowing face, and at the bub- 
bling pot that intervened between them. 

“ YVait where you are a very little longer,” said Nan- 
cy, “ and my brother Jerry wiil be home with Bans 
gaun Soggarth , and if he sees you here, he’ll lay open 


88 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


your rascally scull with one plciesk of his stick, as you ’ll 
well desarve.” 

But our amorous youth felt incensed at being thus 
easily counterworked by the girl, and disregarding her 
threat of Boney’s return, which lie probably considered 
as being merely held out in terrorem, he caught up one 
of the chairs by the back, and engineered with its legs 
so efficiently as to render it a matter of necessity on 
Nancy’s part to drop the pot in self-defence, in order 
to prevent the scalding water from being splashed about 
her feet. 

The instant she had laid down the pot, the terrified 
girl ran screaming to the door, pursued by Fitzroy ; 
when, O sight of joy ! Bonaparte appeared, with his 
usual accompaniment of Bausgaun Soggarth in his hand, 
springing over the style of the bavvn ditch, and another 
instant brought him to the succor of Nancy. 

“ Oh, Jerry, Jerry ! I thought I never would see you ! 
Thank God you're come !” cried Nancy, throwing her- 
self into her brother’s arms. 

“ Why — how now — what the devil is this?” shouted 
Boney, frowning awfully on the unlucky intruder, and 
disengaging himself from his sister, in order to be able to 
“wheel” unimpeded, at Fitzroy. 

That nimble personage had immediately comprehend- 
ed that the case was not one that admitted of very much 
deliberation, and on the first startling vision of Boney, 
he took to his heels with all the speed that terror could 
furnish, and cleared the bawn ditch at the nearest point, 
with an agility such as he had rarely exhibited before. 
Bonaparte, justly incensed at his brutal aggression upon 
Nancy, and feeling his own temper, too, not very much 
soothed by his recent deniele with Prince Gruflfenhausen, 
was resolved that the amorous fugitive should not escape 
quite so easily ; and pursuing him with swift and giant 
strides, he overtook him at the bank of the river, and 
laying on a blow of Bans gaiin Soggartlr with equal 
force and science, he dislocated Fitzroy’s right arm at 
the elbow. 

“There’s for you now, my merry lad,” said Boney, 
“ that will spoil your embracing for a while, I think.” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


89 


He then flung away his stick, as if afraid that he might 
be tempted to sanguinary extremities, and suddenly re- 
solved upon another mode of punishing the culprit. 
Catching Fitzroy by the nape of his neck, he dragged 
him to the verge of the water, and standing on a large 
projecting stone, which afforded great facilities for his 
purpose, he plunged him into the stream, and kept duck- 
ing him foi* a quarter of an hour, saying, at every succes- 
sive pkrnge, u Take that, and that, and that, and that. 
Oh, how hot you were awhile ago, my young masther ! 
you were badly in want of a good cooling, and bad luck 
to my buttons but I ’ll give it to you with the vengeance.’’ 

Fitzroy made repeated efforts to implore mercy, but 
his accents were inarticulate, from the bubbling of the 
water in his mouth. 

“ Do you remember,” said Boney, “ how eager you 
were to know all about Bails gaun Soggarth, the night 
we all dined in the ould castle ? I believe you know 
more than you like about him now. You must needs 
draw his picture, too, in your book — Faix 1 dhrew his 
picture on your elbow ! c Irish weapons !’ Ton my con- 
science, my buck, you Ml be able to give ’em a good 
chapter about Irish weapons, now, I think, and Irish 
girls, faix ! and Irish duckings, too.” 

When Bonaparte’s anger was in some sort appeased, he 
pulled Fitzroy out of the water, and bestowing a sound 
kick upon his dorsal extremity, sent him, dripping and 
shivering about his business, with the further admoni- 
tion, that he had better take care how he returned to 
Father O’Connor’s. 

This admonition was unnecessary to the trembling, 
perished, mangled, half-drowned wretch, who crawled 
rather than walked, to Beamish’s inn at the cross roads, 
whence he sent a boy to Dwyer’s-Gift for his servant and 
portmanteau. The servant soon arrived, and the in- 
stant that he changed his clothes, and got his arm ban- 
daged by a cow-doctor (the vicinage not affording a 
more expert practitioner in the surgical art), he mounted 
his horse, and rode to the village of Knockanea, whose 
Esculapius dressed his arm, and recommended quiet. 
But Fitzroy was desirous to escape from the neighbor? 


90 


THE HUSEAND-HUNTER. 


hood, and hired a chaise, in which he proceeded to 
Martagon, whither he and his brother had received an 
invitation to shoot, from Colonel Nugent. The elder 
Mordaunt had ridden over to Kavanagh’s residence, in 
the morning, to pay his devotion to Isabella. Fitzroy 
augured that his brother’s chance of Isabella’s hand 
might be somewhat affected, should his own adven- 
ture with the Howlaghans transpire. But he did not 
feel very despondent about this consideration, for his 
confidence in his brother’s scavoir faire was very great, 
and if the worst came to the worst, Mordaunt might dis- 
claim all sympathy of feeling or affection with Fitzroy, 
and assume the horrified saint on the occasion, which, 
if necessary, no man could do better. 

CHAPTER X. 

D» r svvuet rvymph, have pity on me, and let not the hardness of thine heart be- 
lli, the softness of thine eye. 

i Muzrour Kuffitoq ZYDDAR^tn. 

When O’Sullivan reached Martagon, he was received 
w r ith the warmest expressions of delight by Colonel Nu- 
gent and Lucinda. 

“ And so you are come at last,” said Lucinda : V How 
anxiously my brother and I have expected this day ! To- 
morrow we will revisit all our childish haunts together, 
and you shall come and see old Peter, our superannuated 
gardener ; the poor old creature is still alive, and dying 
to see you.” 

The morrow came, and O’Sullivan accompanied Lu- 
cinda to the scenes which, from early recollections, were 
dearest to his heart. They sauntered through the woods, 
and along the seashore, and did not return to the house 
until the afternoon was tolerably far advanced. Ere the 
company retired before dinner, a chaise arrived, whose 
contents quickly appeared in the shape of Mr. Fitzroy 
Mordaunt, looking interestingly pale and woe-begone, 
with his arm in a sling. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


91 


“ So, Fitzroy, my dear fellow — what has happened to 
you ?” said Colonel Nugent, advancing to meet him. 

“I met with an accident,” replied the invalid. 

“ An accident ?” repeated Lucinda, “it must have 
been a serious one ; do let us hear all about it.” 

“ Yesterday morning,” said Fitzroy, “ I was walking 
among the wild steep crags that overhang the river of 
Glen Minnis, and at the narrowest and most dangerous 
part of the path 1 met *an old woman with a basket on 
her shoulder, picking her tottering and feeble steps 
along the giddy verge. The poor old creature seem- 
ed sadly oppressed with the weight of her burden, and 
she looked up at me, I thought, as if she implored as- 
sistance, although her humility, or diffidence, prevented 
her from asking it. In common humanity I could not^ 
avoid offering to carry her basket. She gratefully ac- 
cepted my aid ; but in trying to take it from her shoulder, 
she lost her balance, and fell over the edge of the steep 
into the river. I made an effort to save her, my foot 
slipped, and I fell into the water, receiving several severe 
contusions from the large rough stones that projected 
from the side of the steep. My arm was shockingly 
dislocated, but I do not mind the pain, as I had the in- 
expressible satisfaction of preserving the poor old wo- 
man from drowning.” 

O’Sullivan listened to the narrative of Fitzroy’s gene- 
rous self-devoted ness,- without any very implicit faith in 
the narrator’s veracity. An old clergyman, who was 
present, lauded him greatly, and compared his conduct 
to that of the charitable Samaritan. Fitzroy received 
his praises as a matter of course, interposing a few mod- 
est phrases of disclaimer. 

“ Where is Mordauntl” asked Colonel Nugent. 

“At Dwyer s-Gift; he occasionally visits at CastU 
Kavanagh.” 

“ Doing any thing there ? eh ?” asked Nugent, in a 
low and confidential tone. 

“ Oh yes — he has been quite successful,” responded 
Fitzroy in the same tone. 

“Glad of it,” said Nugent ; “ Isabella Kavanagh is a 
charming girl, and will have, I am certain, a very large 
fortune.” 


92 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


u Do you know precisely how much ?” asked Fitzroy. 

“ No — can’t say I do — your brother, I suppose, has 
ascertained all that — but her uncle Kavanagh, and her 
other uncle, Browne, are both able to settle very hand- 
somely.” 

Fitzroy was struck with the similarity of Colonel Nu- 
gent’s answer, to all the answers that his brother had re- 
ceived to his inquiries. Every one had told him of the 
wealth of Miss Kavanagh’s uncles ; every one presumed 
they must make a very handsome settlement upon her, 
but nobody could ever tell how much they were to give, 
although young ladies are usually rated at a specified 
sum. No such specification appeared to have been 
made in Isabella’s case ; bat some persons hinted that 
Kavanagh would make her the heiress of his large es- 
tates, as he was childless, and had not any near male 
relative who seemed at all likely to interfere with Isa- 
bella’s succession. People spoke with greater certainty 
about her uncle Browne’s intentions ; he had' repeatedly 
been heard to say he would make her the wealthiest 
match in the coun’ty, but he had cautiously abstained 
from committing himself further than by general decla- 
rations, which were never made personally, to either Isa- 
bella or her mother. 

But the rumor of these promises and prospects, and 
the manifest and uudoubted wealth of the family, seem- 
ed to Mordaunt to furnish sufficient security that he was 
perfectly safe in making the offer of his hand. “ They ’re 
as rich as Jews,” he argued, “ and they certainly must 
and will give the girl something solid ; they have no one 
else to give it to, unless that distant cousin, whom, by the 
bye, I understand old Kavanagh does not like. But af- 
ter all, it is really strange, very strange, that living in the 
house with such a near and wealthy relative, by whom 
she seems beloved, Miss Kavanagh’s fortune should still 
seem to float among the regions of uncertainty.” 

But Mordaunt thought that the chances in Isabella's 
favor far overbalanced this last mentioned drawback, and 
accordingly he plied his suit with unremitting assiduity. 
He solicited permission from Mrs. Kavanagh and Isa- 
bella to correspond with the young lady, which was rea- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


OS 

dily accorded. In the intervals between his visits at 
Castle Kavanagh, therefore, a brisk fire of sentimental 
billets doux was kept up, of which the greater number, 
indeed, were transmitted through the servants of the 
parties, although it sometimes happened, when the ser- 
vants at Castle Kavanagh were otherwise particularly 
occupied, that a Pacolet was necessarily selected from 
some of the numerous loungers and runners who are 
often found loitering about a large establishment. 

It chanced, at this period, that the persevering Mr. 
Jonathan Lucas made a grand final effort to obtain a 
promise of marriage from Miss Kavanagh. His hopes 
had been kept alive by the circumstance, that, notwith- 
standing the young lady’s previous rejection of his suit, 
his visits were still permitted by her family ; and her 
mother’s manner appeared to him quite as friendly and 
hospitable as ever. 

“Either she has mentioned my addresses to her 
mother and uncle, or she has not thus argued the log- 
ical swain : “ if she has, it is perfectly, evident, from the 
continued friendliness of their manner, that they do not 
disapprove of the match ; if she has not, I take her si- 
lence as an evidence that I am not at all disagreeable to 
her; and in either case, all her wincing and shying is the 
veriest coquetry. I will still pursue the attack ; as for 
Mordaunt, I do not fear his rivalry ; he ’s a handsome 
figure, certainly, but not quite so piquant as 1 am [Mr. 
Jonathan Lucas was all but humpbacked ;] “ and as for 
conversation, — why the fellow has a vast deal of small 
talk, undoubtedly, but not one iota of logic in his whole 
composition.” 

Full of his resolve to persevere, Mr. Jonathan Lucas 
embodied his pathetic and persuasive appeal in the form 
of a letter, which he sent to Castle Kavanagh, and await- 
ed the return of his messenger with a lover’s impatience. 
Thus ran the amorous effusion of Jonathan : — 

“ TO MISS ISABELLA KAVANAGH. 

“ Never, since the hour when the vital spark first enli- 
vened the matter of which I am composed, did I feel so 


94 


THE HUSBAND-HtJNTEtt. 


inexpressibly perplexed as on the present occasion. My 
faculties are involuntarily obfuscated ; the concatenation 
of my ideas is thoroughly unhinged, and a mental chaos 
supersedes the usual logical order and precision of my 
sentiments. I have begun this letter seventeen times, 
and consigned to the flames sixteen different protestations 
of the deep, the ineffable affection with which your in- 
comparable excellence inspires me. 

“ I do not know how I should address you. Profound 
respect and ardent love wage a bitter conflict for the 
mastery. If I should adopt a style corresponding with 
the former feeling, an air of frigidity might unwittingly 
pervade an effusion which comes straight from a heart 
that glows with the concentrated ardor of ten thousand 
furnaces. If, on the other hand, I should yield to the 
dictates of passion, they might betray my pen into ex- 
pressions of familiarity altogether incompatible with the 
deep respect 1 unaffectedly experience for you. You 
perceive that I am wedged between the sharply-pointed 
horns of a cruel dilemma. You alone, adored Miss Ka- 
vanagh, are able to uhhorn me, by the total annihilation 
of the wicked dilemma in question : for you , most be- 
loved and respected of women ! can tell me how I ought 
to address you ; and oh ! may I beg, may I pray, may I 
earnestly entreat, may I anxiously implore, that your an- 
swer may be kind arid favorable ? Permit me, beloved 
and respected Miss Kavanagh, to suggest, that our union 
could not possibly be otherwise than supremely blissful ; 
for, whence, I would demand, does connubial felicity 
arise ; what is its origin 1 what is its source ? Beyond a 
question, identity of taste, community of mind, between 
the married parties. Permit me, again, to insinuate, that 
this originating cause of married happiness exists in per- 
fection between us. You are musical. So am I. You 
are literary. So am I. You are fond of children. So 
am I, — very . Your mind is naturally logical. My 
thoughts spontaneously frame themselves in syllogisms, 
sorites, dilemmas, and all the choicest forms of the art 
of reasoning. Blessed, then, with a perfect identity 
of mind, so unusual, and to me so flatering, how could 


tbE HUSBAND-HUNTElt. 95 

our union be productive of other results than superlative 
felicity 1 

“ Permit me, once again, to present to your mind, a 
little picture which has frequently floated, in colors of 
brilliant enchantment, before my entranced imagination ; 
Oh ! may it be found to possess equal charms for you . 

“ What, for example, do you think of a social, matri- 
monial evening; an accomplished pair gazing with intense 
affection on each other, as their highly intellectual con- 
versation affords mutual delight and improvement. Wit 
sparkles, music enlivens, history instructs. Of the hus- 
band’s ponderous legal tomes, |N. B. last week I pur- 
chased half-a-hundred-weight of law books;] one or two 
volumes appear upon a writing-table, indicating that 
he carries with him, even into his hours of relaxation, 
an unceasing devotion to the noble study of our jurispru- 
dence. Tokens of the wife’s light and elegant employ- 
ments are also visible, while the socil hearth is cheered 
by — O ! Isabella ! pardon a fond lover’s raptured dream ! 
— two rosy cherubs, one of whom, a lively, sportive, lit- 
tle fellow, is named — suppose we say Jonathan ? and 
gives every promise to inherit whatever share of intellec- 
tual capacity his parent may be deemed to possess ; while 
the other little pledge of love is christened Isabella, and 
is endeared to her father’s doating heart by the strong 
resemblance she bears to her incomparable mother. 

“ Confess, O! loveliest of women, if Jonathan has not 
sketched oft' a little scene of paradise? 

“ My hand and heart now tremble. My doom de- 
pends upon your breath. Despising the circumlocutory 
modes in which men of ordinary minds, in general, solic- 
it an answer to the most important, the most interesting 
of all queries, I come directly to the point, and I ask, 
though with feelings of painfully intense anxiety, 

“ Miss Isabella Kavanagh, will you marry me ? 

“ Will you marry your affectionate, your admiring, 
your impatient, your devoted, your obedient, humble 
servant, 

“ Jonathan Lucas ? 

1 “ Barrister-at-Law, 

(of Lucastown, county of Cork, and 191, Grafton-street, 
Dublin).” 


96 


THE HUSBAND-IIUNTKR. 


Mr. Jonathan Lucas was compelled to wait for an an- 
swer to this letter until the following day, for Miss J£a- 
vanagh was from home, and the time of her return was 
uncertain. 

The lady’s reply was brief: — 

“ Sir, 

“ I felt extremely astonished at the subject of your 
letter of yesterday. I have sufficiently expressed, upon 
former occasions, my decided and unalterable rejection 
of your suit ; and I now feel compelled to desire that you 
may, for the future, desist from troublesome and imper- 
tinent importunity. 

“ I am, Sir, 

“ Your obedient servant, 

“ Isabella Kavanagh . 55 

Pursuing the mistaken policy which had hitherto pre- 
vented her from speaking to her mother on the subject 
of Jonathan’s attentions, Isabella was equally silent on 
the present occasion. She did not wish to excite the cu- 
riosity of the family by sending one of the servants to Lu- 
castown with her letter ; so she gave it in charge to a boy 
who had sometimes officiated as pacolet for Mordaunt, 
and who was now commissioned by Miss Kavanagh to 
bear an epistle to her more fortunate suitor. Our story 
requires the insertion of her billet to Mordaunt. 

“Many thanks for your’s, which-came while I was ab- 
sent from home yesterday. I was much pleased with 
what you said about the books. As to the other affair, 
why are you so cruelly pressing? you know you are pos- 
sessed of my heart, although, perhaps, I ought not to 
confess it ; but as I am anxious that Miss Wharton may 
be my bridesmaid, I am compelled to defer our marriage 
until her arrival. 

“ Ever your affectionate 

Isabella Kavanagh.” 

“ Now/ 5 said Isabella, as she gave her letters to the 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 97 

boy, “ you are sure you know which of these letters to 
take to Lucastown, and which to Dwyer’s Gift V 9 

“ To be sure I does,, Miss.” # 

“ Well, show me which.” 

“ Dis one is for Mr. Mordaunt, and dis one is for Mr. 
Lucas.” 

“ No, you stupid creature, you are quite wrong. I 
will tie a bit of silk about Mr. Mordaunt’s letter, and. 
then you can make no mistake.” 

“ That will do very well Miss, if you please.” 

Isabella tied the silk to mark her lover’s letter, and 
the messenger went off with his despatches. He was 
proceeding rapidly along, when he met Mr. Jonathan 
Lucas himself, at a part of the road about a mile from 
Castle Kavanagh. 

“ I’ve got a bit of a letter for you, Sir,” he cried, hail- 
ing Jonathan, who immediately pulled up ; the boy ex- 
tracted a letter from the intricate depths of a tattered 
pocket, and not only did the envelope of w rapping-pa- 
per in which it was prudently enclosed, rub off in the 
process of extraction, but the red silk rubbed off also, so 
that the urchin, losing his distinguishing mark, handed 
Mordaunt’s epistle to Jonathan. 

Jonathan immediately perceived that it was not in- 
tended for him ; but being somewdiat unscrupulous, he 
opened it without hesitation ; his jealous curiosity being 
strongly aroused by the direction on the cover, which he 
instantly recognized as Isabella’s handwriting. His rage 
was great on finding, from the perusal, that Isabella was 
actually betrothed to Mordaunt ; he panted for ven- 
geance, and he mentally resolved to omit no opportunity 
of wreaking it, if possible, on the heads both of Mordaunt 
and the lady. 

Fraught with these amiable intentions, our disappoint- 
ed lover pursued his way, when his attention was caught 
by a letter he descried upon the road, and which he im-* 
mediately dismounted to pick up. It was the very episr 
tie Isabella had written in reply to his eloquent produc- 
tion, and had fallen on the ground through a hole in the 
pocket of the stupid messenger. Its perusal wrought 
up Jonathan’s ire to the highest extreme of inveterate 
VOL. i. 9 


98 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


hatred. “ I taught her once,’’ soliloquised the discarded 
swain, “ how to make love in syllogisms ; 1 11 teach her 
now another form of logic — a dilemma ; and curse me 
if I don’t get her into as tight a one as ever girl was 
wedged in , — if 1 can.” 

Meanwhile Mordaunt was hastening on the wings of 
love to make a morning visit at Castle Kavanagh. 

cc Did you receive my letter ?” asked Isabella. 

“ No — I suppose the messenger went the other road.” 

“ Probably,” said Isabella ; it was not of any cohse- 
quence.” 

The lovers said all they had to say upon the topics 
which pressed at the time, and the subject of the note 
was completely forgotten. Mordaunt pressed his suit 
with eagerness, and expressed a wish to see Mr. Kava- 
nagh, in order to enter upon certain preliminary arrange- 
ments. 

“ You cannot see my uncle,” said Isabella, “ until he 
returns from France.” 

“ From France ! You astonish me. When did he 
go there ?” 

“ He set out this morning, in consequence of a very 
unexpected summons he received last night to attend the 
dying hours of a relative, from whom he had long been 
estranged, and who has recently become desirous of a 
reconciliation.” „ 

When Mordaunt took his leave, he was met by an ac- 
quaintance he had recently formed ; one of those loose 
hangers-on of society, those idle, talkative, scampering 
personages, who are usually first in the field of gossiping 
intelligence. 

“ Happy to see you Mr. Mordaunt; fine day this,” 
said Captain Webster. Mordaunt courteously returned 
his greeting. 

“ Have you heard — l suppose, of course, you have,” 
said the communicative captain, “ of the blow-up at Cas- 
tle Kavanagh ?” 

“ No,” said Mordaunt, u I hope no misfortune has oc- 
curred.” 

“ Why only that Browne, Mrs. Henry Kavanagh’s 
brother, has failed for an immense sum of money, and 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


99 


has flown off to France, to escape from his creditors; 
and Kavanagh, they say, has followed him there, being 
in some way involved in the scrape. Though I must 
confess I don’t see precisely how Kavanagh can have 
been in any manner involved in Browne’s failure, as he 
had not the smallest concern, that any body knew of, in 
Browne’s mercantile establishment.’’ 

“ So Browne was a merchant V* said Mordaunt. 

<c Yes ; he was one of the first wine-merchants in Dub- 
lin. The pride of the Kavanaghs revolted against the 
connexion, and old Kavanagh would not speak to his 
brother Henry for many years after his marriage; but at 
length when Henry died, he relented, and has ever since 
been extremely kind to his widow and her daughter.” 

“ He means, I believe,” said Mordaunt, “ to give Miss 
Isabella Kavanagh a large fortune.” 

“ There is no saying what he will do ; he is a whim- 
sical oddity ; sometimes he says he will leave her every- 
thing, and at other times he says he will leave his estates 
to some cousin who resides in Dublin. I know I would 
not give much for Miss Kavanagh’s chance, if her uncle 
took a crotchet in his head.” ' • 

But Miss Kavanagh will doubtless be otherwise very 
well provided for said Mordaunt, who felt rather un- 
comfortable at the nature of the information his talkative 
.companion so liberally gave. “ Her mother, of course, 
had a good fortune ?” 

“ She had a good fortune, until her husband spent it : 
Mr. Henry Kavanagh was extremely extravagant, and 
ran through almost every farthing she had.” 

When Mordaunt arrived at Dwyer’s Gift, the news of 
Browne’s bankruptcy and flight, was confirmed by a gen- 
tleman who dined there ; this gentleman did not believe 
that Mr. Kavanagh’s journey to France had any connex- 
ion whatever with the movements of Browne ; but his in- 
formation too fully demonstrated that one large source, 
at least, of Isabella’s expectations, was cut off. 

Painfully revolving in the mind this unpleasant intelli- 
gence, Mordaunt retired after dinner to his own apart- 
ment, in order to deliberate uninterruptedly upon the 
course he should adopt. 


100 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ I have not any relish,” quoth he, “ for an Irish take 
in ; I fear I have committed myself rashly and impru- 
dently. That Kavanagh could if he pleased, give Isabel- 
la wealth, is nothing to the purpose, if the strange and 
capricious old oddity does not please ; and whether he 
will or no, nobody can tell. What can I best do? I 
think I’ll return to London, and leave them all in the 
lurch. It would be shabby, to be sure — but incompara- 
bly better than to marry a girl whose fortune is to be de- 
rived from a bankrupt and a whimsical old humorist, 
who does not know his own intentions two days together. 
Oh ! I was dreadfully imprudent, in not having learned 
all about Miss Kavanagh’s fortune from her uncle’s 
mouth, before I committed myself with Isabella ; but 
there seemed such a certainty of wealth, that I thought 
I was safe ; and I also considered that the course I 
adopted would wear an appearance of disinterestedness. 
What shall I do l I do believe I had better go to Lon- 
don, and leave the fair Bankruptina to wear the willow — 
or shall I stay, and fight something out of Kavanagh up- 
on his return ?” 


CHAPTER XI. 

There is a tide in the affairs of man. 

Shakspeare. 

We ended our last chapter by detailing the woeful 
perplexity in which Mr. Mordaunt was placed, by the 
doubts that appeared to encircle Isabella’s inheritance. 
His mind was pretty equally balanced between the pro- 
ject of returning to London, and that of waiting for Ka- 
vanagh’s return, in order to try if he could extract from 
the old gentleman a liberal settlement for Isabella. In 
this state of indecision, he received a letter from a Lon- 
don friend, at whose house a certain Miss Celestina Fan- 
court was at present on a visit ; and the said Celestina 
was stated in the letter to revert with infinite tenderness 
4o certain former meetings with Mordaunt, and to ask 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


101 


with the deepest anxiety whether Mordaunt was shortly 
expected to return to London. 

“In a word,” concluded the letter-writer, “ Celestina 
is dying for love of you ; she has got ten thousand 
pounds ; now is the critical moment of your fortune, my 
dear fellow ; you can have her if you wish ; such a 
promising parti may never again offer ; so come, secure 
your good fortune while you can, and marry Celestina.” 

This letter determined our hero ; he bade a hasty 
farewell the next day to Father O’Connor, whom he 
thanked for his hospitality ; and taking what is termed 
“ French leave” of the inhabitants of Castle Kavanagh, 
the faithless Corydon set sail for Bristol in the next Cork 
packet, speeded to London, and married Celestina forth- 
with. 

Isabella was astounded, when she heard that her lover 
had quitted the country without bidding her farewell ; 
but great as was her astonishment on this occasion, it 
was increased when she read the following announce- 
ment in the newspapers, scarcely more than a fortnight 
after his sudden departure: — 

“ Married on the 10th instant at St. George’s, Hanover 
Square, Augustus Stanley Mordaunt, of Mordaunt Hall 
in Yorkshire, Esq., to Celestina, third daughter of the 
late General Fancourt.” 

Mrs. Mersey called on Mrs. Kavanagh, to offer her 
condolence on the loss of the expected bridegroom. 
“ How provoking,” said she, “ that you should have 
taken the trouble of making all those inquiries respecting 
Mr. Mordaunt’s temper, and his habits, and his property ; 

I really feel very much for your disappointment, my dear 
friend ; one looks so ridiculous in losing an acquisition 
such as Mordaunt would have been, after the whole 
country had expected the arrangement. I really pity 
you excessively.” 

Mrs. Kavanagh endeavored to make Mrs. Mersey 
comprehend that she did not feel any disappointment; 
that Mordaunt would have been no acquisition ; and that 
she did not stand in need of pity. But Mrs. Mersey 
would not understand one syllable of this, and continu- 
9 * 


102 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


ed to inflict her commiseration with mortifying perti- 
nacity. 

“ But how do you mean/’ asked Mrs. Kavanagh, 
“ that the whole country had expected the marriage ? 1 
never heard it spoken of, and I really had believed that 
it was wholly unknown to every creature except your- 
self.” 

“ My dear friend, I was really so delighted at the pros- 
pect of Isabella’s happiness, that I could not resist the 
temptation of mentioning the affair to poor dear Lady 
Bally vallin, who was equally delighted, I assure you. 
But nothing can equal her ladyship’s indignation at Mor- 
daunt’s unhandsome desertion. She was really furious, 
when she heard it ; and I can tell you that she will make 
it a particular point to speak of Mordaunt’s ungentle- 
manlike conduct everywhere, and she will not spare 
him, you may rely on it.” 

“Good heaven, Mrs. Mersey ! do not, I entreat you, 
allow Lady Bailyvallin to render more public such 
a circumstance ; it is really bad enough to be ill-used, 
but it is intolerable to have it made the subject of uni- 
versal commentary.” 

“Oh, all the world know it now: and really I think 
they ought to know it, in order that Mordaunt may at 
least incur the penalty of generaLcensure.” 

Mrs. Mersey took her leave, having accomplished her 
amiable purpose ofannoying and mortifying Mrs. Kava- 
nagh in the highest degree. “ And so, mamma,” said 
Isabella, “ every one is talking of the way in which Mor- 
daunt has treated me ? it is dreadfully annoying, certain- 
ly — I cannot bear to remain in this part of the country. 
Do, dear mamma, let us go to Dublin at once ; it is tor- 
ture to me to remain here. 

A journey to Dublin was decided on. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


103 

CHAPTER XII. 

There is a spot, a holy spot, 

A refuge for the wearied mind. 

Where earth’s wild visions are forgot, 

And Love, thy poison spells untwined. 

There learns the withered heart to pray, 

There gently breaks earth’s weary chain ; 

Nay, let me weep my life away — 

Let me do all, but love again ! 

Rev. G. Crolv. 

A difficulty of rather an unwonted nature now pre- 
sented itself. Mrs. Kavanagh’s funds were rather low, 
and she had not any mode of replenishing them until her 
brother’s return from France. He allowed her a fixed 
annual income, of limited amount ; her last supply of 
which was now nearly exhausted. She could not write 
to her brother for money, being wholly unacquainted 
with his address ; and Isabella’s dislike to remain in a 
place where each day exposed her to incursions from 
Lady Jacintha, or Lady Bally vallin, or Mrs. Mersey, or 
Mrs. Curwen, or other sympathetic and condoling friends, 
to whom the fair widow had sedulously communicated 
the desertion of the faithless Mordaunt, increased to 
such a painful degree, that her mother resolved on an 
immediate departure. To travel post was quite out of 
the question ; so the plan resolved on was to proceed in 

Mr. Kavanagh’s carriage as far as the town of ; 

whence they were to travel in the public conveyances to 
Dublin. 

Accordingly they quitted Castle Kavanagh at the early 
hour of six, on a fine, frosty, starlight, winter’s morning. 
The object of this early migration was twofold ; firstly, to 
avoid all possibility of encountering any of Isabella’s 
compassionate female acquaintance on the road; and 
secondly, to spare the fat and lazy coach horses, by giv- 
ing them ample time to perform their journey ; a point 
on which the coachman expended much eloquence. 

When the carriage stopped at the entrance to the 
park, Isabella said with a sigh, “ How long it may be 
until I shall revisit these scenes !” 

“'You may do so under happier auspices, my love/? 


104 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


replied her mother. “ Mordaunt is a sad fellow, certain- 
ly : but from the exhibition he has made of his real dis- 
position, l think you are exceedingly fortunate in being 
well rid of him.” 

This might be all very true ; but it fell coldly and 
painfully on Isabella’s ear; her heart had been wound- 
ed, and notwithstanding the abhorrence that her faith- 
less lover’s fickleness deserved, she could not hate hirn ; 
his image still lay treasured in her bosom, and her grief 
contained but very little mixture of bitterness. 

Towards noon they stopped at a solitary inn on the 
road-side, to refresh John and the horses ; and the fair 
travelers, not feeling inclined to enter the uninviting 
hostelry, proceeded to examine its immediate environs. 

Leaning on the arm of Isabella, Mrs. Kavanagh cross- 
ed a low and broken wall, t he remains of an enclosure 
which seemed to have once surrounded an extensive 
park. They were met by a peasant, of whom Isabella 
inquired the name of the desolate demesne in which 
they found themselves. 

“ Conela, Ma’am,” was the peasant’s reply. 

“ Conela !” repeated Mrs. Kavanagh? we cannot 
be far from the convent.” 

“ Yes, plase your honor; it isn’t a quarter of a mile 
Tower down by the sea-shore.” 

“ Will you guide us there, my good fellow ]” 

“ With all the pleasure in life, Ma’am.” 

“ I never was here before,” said Mrs. Kavanagh, ad- 
dressing her daughter, “ and I am really glad that John 
selected this road, for it gives me an opportunity of see- 
ing my old friend the abbess, who has often invited me 
to visit her.” 

They returned for a moment to the inn, to inform the 
servants of their destination, and then, under the guid- 
ance of the peasant, they re-entered the precincts of the 
ancient park. 

The park of Conela was wild and extensive. The 
appearance of the mansion was heavy, as it once had 
been a castle, of which a part had been taken down, and 
the remainder modernized by the late proprietor, a Dub- 
lin merchant, who had purchased the estate from the 
Bally vallin family, to whom it had originally belonged. 


THE ttUSB A.ND-HtJNTER. 


106 

It had subsequently been sold, to support its new own- 
er’s extravagance. The house had fallen into ruins. 
The front of the building was shaded, in part, by the 
clusters of luxuriant ivy that hung at midrheight from a 
blasted ash, almost the only remnant of the woods of 
Conela. Still faithful in decay, it drooped its withered 
head, as if in sorrow for its venerable brothers of the 
forest, whose fall it had outlived. 

Our travelers advanced through a path that ascended 
the side of a glen, which was thickly covered with dwarf 
coppice. The spray of a waterfall that fell from the 
rocks on the opposite bank, was caught through the 
partial openings among the trees : arbutus, holly, and 
other evergreen shrubs, skirted the path, as, emerging 
from the glen, it wound along the shores of a sheltered 
bay of the Atlantic. A little farther on was a grove of 
ancient oaks, beyond which, partly in ruins, stood the 
moss-grown convent of Conela. The trees with which 
it was surrounded, had been spared at the earnest inter- 
cession of the sisters who occupied the habitable part of 
the convent, and afforded a magnificent specimen of the 
ancient grandeur of the forest. The oaks of ages past 
joined their massive and rugged branches over the ruin- 
ed aisles and roofless cloisters, thus furnishing in sum- 
mer a.living canopy of foliage, where the work of man 
had fallen to decay. 

Isabella was involuntarily soothed by the peaceful 
scene around, that slept beneath the noontide of a day, 
which, although in the wintry month of January, seemed 
to anticipate the warmth of spring. Its deep tranquillity 
was heightened, rather than disturbed, by the gentle 
murmurs of the sea below, which crept, with whispering 
steps, upon the sandy beach. 

“ What a lovely spot !” she exclaimed ; “ the very 
scene is sufficient to dispose the lightest heart to medi- 
tation ! And I ” 

A sigh closed the unfinished sentence; Mrs. Kava- 
nagh was also silent. 

“ Perhaps,” said Isabella, after a pause, “ it were hap- 
pier for me to take refuge in the bosom of religious re- 
tirement, from the storms of this billowy life ! It might 


106 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


spare me many hours of disquiet and misfortune. I am 
sure these poor nuns enjoy a serenity unknown to the 
sons and daughters of the world. Beneficent, beloved 
by all around them, their existence is devoted to assuage 
the sorrows of their lowly fellow beings. Delightful oc- 
cupation ! The blessings, the comforts they impart, re- 
turn with rich interest to their bosoms in the happy tran- 
quillity they enjoy.” 

“ I do not think, Isabella,” said Mrs. Kavanagh, smil- 
ing, “ that you will ever adopt the veil, notwithstanding 
your present fit of conventual enthusiasm. But here 
comes my old friend — I am sure I know her step and 
her figure, although so many years have elapsed since 
we met.” 

As Mrs, Kavanagh spoke, the abbess appeared ; she 
would not have recognised her visitor, whose appearance 
had yielded to the changing influence of years, if she 
had not introduced herself. The meeting was warm and 
affectionate, and the abbess invited her friends to spend 
some time at the convent. 

A few whispered words from Mrs. Kavanagh explain- 
ed that Isabella’s dislike to remain for the present at her 
uncled, was the cause of their journey ; on which the 
abbess pressed them warmly to continue for some time 
at the convent, observing that it afforded Isabella the 
desired seclusion from her unpleasant acquaintance, as 
effectually as a sojourn in Dublin could. 

“ Do, Mamma,” said Isabella ; “ do accept the ab- 
bess’s kind invitation ; I wish to have an opportunity of 
seeing conventual life, and of ascertaining, from my own 
observation, if the sisters are as happy as I am strongly 
inclined to imagine they are.” 

But Mrs. Kavanagh was inexorable, and peremptorily 
refused to remain at Conela longer than a day ; which 
period she conceded, although not without some diffi- 
culty, to her daughter’s importunity. 

They were now at the gate of the convent, which 
they had reached by pursuing a natural terrace that led 
from the ruined cloisters. 

11 Quite round the pile, a row of reverend oak$ } 

Coeval near yidth that, all ragged show, 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


107 


Long lashed by the rude winds ; some rift half down 
Their branchless trunks; others so thina-top, 

That scarce two crows could lodge in the same tree. 

Strange things, the neighbors say have happened here ; 

Wild shrieks have issued from the hollow tombs, 

Lead men have come again, and walked about, 

And the great bell has toll’d, tinwrung, untouch’d.” 

“Beautiful lines,” said the abbess, when Mrs. Kava- 
nagh had repeated them ; “ but in some respects not pre- 
cisely descriptive of the present scene ; for our few old 
oaks are still healthy and luxuriant, and so far from being 
unable to accommodate two crows , their branches, as 
you see, sustain a rookery. And the inmates of the 
tombs remain in quiet occupation of their dark abodes — 
they have never revisited us, I assure you.” 

They now entered the low stone-roofed passage that 
led into the convent ; at its inner extremity was the par- 
lor, a plain, unadorned apartment, of small dimensions. 
On its whitened walls hung two well-executed pictures ; 
one of them represented Saint Augustin composing his 
“ Civitas Dei,” and the other was a portrait of Saint Ur- 
sula. A nun, who had been reading at the table, rose, 
as the abbess entered with her guests. 

“Sister Martha,” said the abbess, “I commend these 
ladies, for an hour, to your hospitable care.” She then 
introduced them to each other, and left the apartment. 

Sister Martha was still young, although she had passed 
the bloom of early youth ; her features were expressive of 
refined benevolence. She entered into conversation with 
Isabella and her mother, and the whole party soon be- 
came excellent friends. Isabella expressed a desire to 
see the convent, with which the nun immediately com- 
plied, and conducted her through the ancient building, 
of which the only portion worthy of inspection was the 
chapel. Isabella, who was somewhat fatigued, took her 
seat on a bench near the altar; the nun also seated her- 
self. 

“Do you like your conventual life]” asked our he- 
roine. 

“ Extremely,” answered sister Martha. “ I would not 
exchange it for the cares and disquiets of the world, on 
any account.” 

“ And tell me,” resumed the fair querist, “ have you 


108 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


never , upon any one occasion, regretted your adoption 
of the veil ?”- 

“ I must acknowledge that I have once or twice re- 
gretted it, when my memory reverted to a happy home, 
and to the faces of my brothers and sisters smiling in 
cheerful affection round our father’s fireside. But that 
momentary feeling of regret was a sinful emotion, which 
I tried to check as soon as it arose ; and, thank heaven, 
I have not experienced it often.” 

“ Why,” asked Isabella, “ do you deem it sinful ?” 

“ Because the Holy Scripture says, ‘ when thou hast 
vowed a vow unto the Lord, thou shalt not slack to pay 
it.’” 

“ Would you, from your own experience, recommend 
the veil to me ?” 

“ Unquestionably not, unless I knew more of your 
temper, disposition, and habits, than it is possible I should 
upon so short an acquaintance.” 

“ What ! not if I told you I was thoroughly disgusted 
with the world ?” 

“No ; for your disgust may arise from some tempora- 
ry cause, which circumstances, perhaps, may soon re- 
move ; and then your remaining life would be miserably 
spent in useless and poignant regret. A state which is 
irrevocable should never be rashly entered on.” 

Isabella was silent for some moments, and felt strongly 
inclined to impart her own private sorrows to the amiable 
and rational nun ; but she could not prevail on herself 
to pronounce Mordaunt’s desertion in articulated , audi- 
ble words. Except to her mother, she had never done 
so yet ; besides which, a sense of incongruity struck her, 
in the notion of making sister Martha, — cool, rational, 
and calculating as she seemed, — the confidant of a love 
affair. 

“ I regret,” said the nun, to- break the silence, “ that 
Mrs. Kavanagh cannot be prevailed on to prolong her 
stay with us.” 

“ Really,” replied Isabella^ “ I believe she fears that if 
she did so, I might become sti enamored of the convent 
as to take the veil in earnest.” 

“ Ah, Miss Kavanagh, your young fancy is charmed, 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


109 


perhaps, at the picturesqueness of seclusion, and your 
mind is influenced by some recent cause of sorrow ; but, 
— I assure you I speak it without meaning to offend, — l 
think the zeal of a young person accustomed to gaiety, 
would be very soon cooled by conventual discipline ; by 
the watchings, fastings, and austerities to which we are 
occasionally subject. ” 

“ I should like to try,” said Isabella. 

“ Your year’s noviciate would exhaust your ardor.” 

“ Will you allow me then to make the experiment to 
night ? to be a nun, at least, for this one night ?” 

“ What ? in the midst of winter, and you altogether 
unaccustomed to nocturnal orisons ? Mrs. Kavanagh*s 
maternal concern for your health would be alarmed.” 

“ Mamma is sometimes unnecessarily apprehensive ; 
but on this occasion she will not, I am sure, refuse to 
gratify my curiosity, provided I am warmly wrapped up.” 

The winter’s sun sank early to his rest ; the evening 
passed agreeably, enlivened with the interesting conver- 
sation of the kind abbess, whose former residence on the 
continent supplied her with a fund of entertaining anec- 
dotes of the time she had once spent in the Parisian great 
world. 

“ But those days are now gone,” said she, 11 and I do 
not regret them. My experience teaches me the wis- 
dom of King Solomon’s exclamation, ‘ Vanity of vani- 
ties, all is vanity.’ All, all indeed that exclusively ap- 
pertains to this world is vanity ; all that exclusively fas- 
tens our thoughts on the empty delusions of a fleeting 
life, which the Christian should mainly consider as ob- 
structing his progress to a happy eternity. We are 
cheerful here, Isabella, in the midst of a cemetery. 
What a lesson we receive, every time that we look from 
our windows on the tombstones beneath ! Into that eter- 
nal, invisible world, upon which the dead have entered, 
we ourselves must shortly enter. What ineffable insan- 
ity in worldlings, to allow the concerns of time , to pre- 
vent them from preparing for that final, inevitable jour- 
ney ! O, it is good to gaze upon the homes of the silent 
dead. They will soon be our homes too. Every grave 
reads a startling lesson to the Christian. How fares 

VOL. i. 10 


no 


THE HUSH A N D-H U NT Ett . 


the soul of its inmate ? Let us ever keep in mind the 
saying of the blessed Paul. ‘ Now is the acceptable 
time ; note is the day of salvation/ Yes ; now or nev- 
er. What countless multitudes of the dead would give 
the universe, if they possessed if, for permission to 
live their lives over again, in order to avoid the fate they 
have incurred ! But with them it is too late. Let us 
thank G5d, that with us it is not yet too late, and in- 
voke His assistance to serve Him faithfully here, that we 
may enjoy His glorious rest eternally hereafter/ 7 

As the abbess spoke, the notes of the vesper bell 
were heard ; Isabella was strongly affected by the im- 
pressive solemnity of her appeal ; and it was with mois- 
tened eyes and a throbbing bosom that she rose to fol- 
low her hostess and the nuns to the chapel. As they 
entered the low vaulted passage, sister Martha asked our 
heroine to accompany her through the cemetery walk, to 
which Isabella readily assented, having first provident- 
ly cloaked herself, to guard against the night air. 

The scene was sufficiently striking to arrest the admi- 
ration of a person more indifferent than Isabella to the 
wilder moods of nature. A shower of snow had fallen 
in the evening, and loaded the huge gnarled boughs of 
the old rugged oaks that surrounded the convent : they 
were tinged with a faint and ghastly light by the moon’s 
early crescent, which threw a sullen and imperfect beam 
on the dark sea beneath the rock, contrasting strangely 
with the reflection of the red lights from the chapel 
windows, that twinkled on the livid waters. 

Notwithstanding the ehilness of the night, Isabella was 
irresistibly induced by the strange, wild charm of the 
cold and quiet scene, to linger on the verge of the ter- 
race. The sweet, low, measured chime of the convent 
bell harmonized with her solemn emotions. 

“ On this side of the terrace, 77 said sister Martha, 
pointing to the cloisters, “are the abodes of the dead ; 
and on that , is the wide and trackless sea, an appropri- 
ate emblem of that world of boundless duration to which 
their God has called them/ 7 

The bell now ceased, and the soft, liquid warbling 
of the organ was heard from within ; its upper notes 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


Ill 


were touched by a finger of no common delicacy, and 
the wild and plaintive strain soon melted into chords of 
full, rich harmony. They left the terrace, and entering 
the chape! by a postern, united their devotions with 
those of the sisters. 

The time wore apace, the vesper prayers concluded, 
find Isabella, overpowered with the weariness arising 
from excitement, retired to rest. * She sank into a pro- 
found slumber, which was unbroken even by the chimes 
of prime, and lauds, that successively sounded on the 
silence of the night, startling, perhaps, from his repose, 
a sable denizen of the “ rooky wood,” whose wing would 
rustle for a moment in his airy nest. 




CHAPTER XIII. 

Then came an ancient man, 

“Madam, your slave,” quoth he; 

“I know you not, Syr,” said the dame. 

The man said, “But I know thee.” 

Old Ballad. 

The following day was a festival, and the abbess suc- 
ceeded in her efforts to induce Mrs. Kavanagh to pro- 
long her sojourn at the convent. 

“Your mother was inexorable yesterday,” said sister 
Martha, smiling, “ when the abbess besought her to re- 
main a second day here ; now that she has yielded so 
far, I hope that she may yield still further.” 

“ I should hope so too,” replied Isabella, “ for I really 
wish I were permitted to try how a short noviciate would 
agree with me.” 

“ Not much, I should fancy,” said Martha, “ to judge 
from the experience of last night; I looked towards the 
chapel door, expecting your appearance at each of our 
nocturnal services and saw you not. Your zeal was 
short lived.” 

“ The spirit was willing, sister Martha, but fatigue 
overcame me. Heaven knows, I needed rest.” 


112 


THE HUSBA VD-HUNTEtt. 


“ For a wearied spirit, or an exhausted body ?” asked 
the nun. 

“ For both.” 

“ For both 1 you did well, then, to seek repose ; al- 
though sleep will not always come at the bidding of a 
wearied spirit.” 

“ That is one of the worst penalties of misfortune,” 
said Isabella. 

“ But if sorrow scares slumber from our pillow,” said 
Martha, mildly, “ still we have a soothing remedy in 
prayer.” 

“ Oh, sister Martha,” said Isabella fervently, “ you are 
right — I have felt it — I have indeed felt it. If you but 
knew what I have recently suffered ” 

Isabella was on the point of confiding her grievances 
to sister Martha, and asking her counsel and sympathy ; 
when the tolling of a bell summoned both to the chapel, 
where mass was about to commence. 

“Come,” said the nun, rising from her chair, “come 
to mass — if it will relieve your heart to commune with 
me on the subject of your griefs, I shall readily listen to 
you at another time. Think well, however, first, whe- 
ther you might not hereafter regret having committed 
them to any person — even to me.” 

Isabella was silent, and followed Martha to the chapel. 

The train of nuns walked up the aisle, preceded by 
the officiating clergyman, and a crucifer, or cross-bearer, 
who carried in his hand a large and beautifully-wrought 
ivory crucifix. When the nuns reached the choir, the 
hymn, “ Veni, Creator Spiritus” was pealed from the 
organ ; the strain was followed by a benediction, and 
then mass commenced. 

Isabella knelt beneath a low stone arch, which form- 
ed a recess in the wall, and at whose farther end there 
was a small iron door ; the ceiling of the arch was adorn- 
ed with elaborate fret- work, upon which was emblazon- 
ed, at every intersection of the tracery, the crest of the 
sept of O'Sullivan Lyra, — a boar’s head erased. Un- 
heeding these fantastic decorations, she endeavored to 
bend her whole soul to the exercises of devotion ; and 
resting her head upon her hand, so as to exclude all per- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


113 


eeption of surrounding objects, she poured forth her 
spirit heavenwards, in earnest, inward prayer. 

When mass was over, and the parting benediction 
had been given, the congregation rose to depart. Isa- 
bella still lingered, wrapt in devotional thoughts, and al- 
most unconscious that she was now the sole occupant of 
the chapel. For several minutes she remained engross- 
ed in solitary prayer, when her attention was arrested by 
the creaking of the iron door behind her. It was open- 
ed wish as^ little noise as its rusty hinges would permit, 
and carefully closed again. A footstep paced along the 
arched passage, and in another moment a stranger knelt 
at Isabella’s side. She did not allow this occurrence to 
disturb her, and refrained from looking at her new com- 
panion, until she had concluded her devotions. When, 
at length, she rose from her knees, and gazed around, 
she was struck by the singularly venerable, patriarchal 
figure of the stranger. His head was nearly bald, save 
that some few grey locks still fell from his temples on 
his shoulders : his color was fresh and healthful, and his 
clear blue eye quite unimpaired by age. His coat was 
made like the capuchin tunic, save that it wanted a 
hood ; the material was the strong grey freize, in com- 
mon use among the Leinster peasantry ; round his waist 
was a black leather belt, whence depended a large ro- 
sary, the beads of which were ivory and oak. A silver 
crucifix was also appended to the belt, exclusively of that 
which appertained to t lie rosary. The penitent held it 
up with his left hand, while with his right he smote his 
breast, exclaiming, in accents of contrition, 

“Ostende nobis, Domine, miserieordiam tuam # .” 

His lips then silently moved for some moments, when 
with sudden energy he clasped his hands together, antf 
in tones of the most solemn earnestness chaunted forth 
these verses of an ancient Latin hymn : 

u Ne mens gravata crimine, 

Vitae sit exul munere ; 

Dum nil perenn® cogitat, 

Seseque culpis illigat. 


* O Lord, show us thy mercy. 5 

10* 


114 


THE HUSBAND-IIUNTKR. 


“ Celeste pulsat ostium, 

Vitale toilet prcemiurn; 

Viteruus orane noxium ; 

Pergemus omne pessimum. 

u Praesta, Pater piisime ; 

Patrique conipar Unice ; 

Cum spirit u Paraclito, 

Regnans per omne sseculum.* 

The voice was clear and skilfully managed, although 
slightly tremulous from the singer’s age. Isabella, who 
had stood in the aisle regarding the old man with inte- 
rest as well as admiration, now moved towards the door. 
But he instantly perceived her purpose, and waved his 
hand, as if requesting her to stay. Surprised at his do- 
ing so, she seated herself on a bench in the aisle, feeling 
curious to learn his motive for detaining her : he thank- 
ed her with a smile, and immediately resumed his offices 
of devotion, in which, for some minutes, he seemed 
buried. At length he rose, made a low genuflection to- 
wards the altar, and approaching our heroine, said, with 
a slight depression of his head, 

“Lady, I would speak with you.” 

Isabella bowed, in token of acquiescence. 

The old man led the way to the cloister, and then 
said, “ This may appear a strange liberty, and so it 
would be, if I had not the warrant of being an old fol- 
lower of your house for many a long year; it is often, 
Miss Isabella Kavanagh, that I held you in these arms 
when you were a little infant.” 

“It is strange, then,” said Isabella, “ that I know you 
not.” 

“No, Miss Isabella; it would be strange indeed if 
you knew me, for you never saw me since you were a lit- 
tle child ; but you may have heard my name. Did you 

* The first two stanzas have thus been freely translated : — 

“ Call not, O Lord, untimely hence, 

Our spirits stained with deep offence, 

To stand before thy awful bar, 

Victim^ of sin’s delusive snare ! 

* But rather, while at mercy’s door, 

Contrite, our treasons we deplore, 

Oh! grant thy trembling suppliants peace, 

And bid their sins and sorrows cease. 

*j*he third siania U a doxology. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 115 

ever hear your honored uncle mention one Terence O’- 
Leary ?” 

“ I often did,” said Isabella. 

“ I am lie, Miss Kavanagh. I enlisted, and served in 
the army for several years ; I saw little except sin wher- 
ever I went ; men seemed only emulous in trying who 
should most break God’s commandments, and who should 
plunge the deepest into guilt. I was for a time as bad 
as any, but it pleased God to open my eyes to my mis- 
erable state. I have seen the reckless child of pleasure 
carried suddenly hence to meet his God, with blasphemy 
upon his tongue, and pollution in his heart. A voice 
seemed to whisper in my ear, c O, man; may it not be 
even thus with thyself?’ — I shuddered, and felt as though 
I were plucked from the verge of a pit into which 1 was 
about to fall. I deserted my evil associates, betook my- 
self to prayer, and I trust received grace to think sav- 
ingly upon those sacred truths which form our only safe 
.guide here and our only hope hereafter. I was eager to 
quit the army ; a generous friend gave me money to buy 
my discharge ; and having shortly after, been left by a 
relation enough to support me without depending on my 
labor, I have indulged my inclination to spend a large 
part of every day in the holy House of God, before His 
altar.” 

“ 1 am glad,” said Isabella, “ to see an old follower of 
our family, so happy in the enjoyment of a healthful and 
virtuous old age. Remember me, Father, in your pray- 
ers ; I shall remember you in mine. May God bless 
you, and give you peace now, and in your closing 
hour.” 

And she extended her hand to the old man, as if bid- 
ding him farewell. He caught it, and reverently press- 
ed it to his lips. 

“ But, lady, you do not go yet,” said he ; “ I have not 
said my say.” And he paused, as though he felt some 
awkwardness in giving expression to his thoughts. 
“ Look, Miss Kavanagh, at the crest that is carved over 
this old arch — the boar’s head — know you, lady, of what 
house this crest is the cognizance?” 

“ How scholarly you talk of crests,” exclaimed the 
lady. 


110 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ Why should you marvel at my scholarship ?” de- 
manded the old man; “am I not from Kerry, where 
Latin, in my early days, was nearly as current as Irish ; 
and where every man knows the ensigns-armorial of, at 
least, the great houses to which he or his kin have been 
fosterers ? and have 1 not been reader, now and then, to 
the Reverend Provincial of the Augustinians ?” 

“Pardon me,” said Isabella, “I meant not to offend 
you.” 

“ Pardon you> my sweet lady ! you could not offend 
your old servant. But know you to what house the crest 
of the boar’s head belongs ?” 

“ To my shame be it spoken, I do not,” replied Isa- 
bella. 

“ Indeed it is a shame for you, Miss Kavanagh. For 
that crest might yet — forgive my boldness, lady — that 
crest might yet, with God’s guidance and blessing, be- 
come your own .” 

“ Mine ? how mean you, old man ]” 

“ I mean this, lady — that I have prayed long and of- 
ten, that you, the sweet child of my beloved master, 
might yet be the bride of the best, the truest Christian 
gentleman that ever yet scorned the snares and devices 
of the world, and walked in the path of honor and the 
Gospel — the generous friend who saw that my spirit was 
chafed among my profligate comrades in the army, and 
from a store too scanty for his princely heart, gave me — 
it is now twelve years ago, and he was but a stripling 
then — a free gift of the money that purchased my dis- 
charge.” 

Isabella looked inquiringly. 

“ Come, young lady — you pretend you know not 
whom I mean. O’Sullivan Lyra is the man — may 
Pleaven bless him ! But I crave your pardon, Miss Ka- 
vanagh — I have been too bold for my station.” 

“Old man, you have taken an inexcusable liberty,” re- 
sponded Isabella ; “ your motives may be good, for what 
I know, but no motives can excuse your unwarrantable 
freedom ; you presume far too much on the licence al- 
lowed to old followers. This sacred place, ^ I think, 
should have protected me, independently of any other 
consideration.” 


ttftE riUSBAND-MUNTKR. 


117 


“ Oh ! lady, do not judge me harshly. Do not go, 
without hearing me ask pardon, if I have offended you.”*' 

Isabella had re-entered by the cloister door into the 
chapel, and was quickly proceeding down the aisle. 

“ Stay yet, lady — do not part from me in anger — only 
let me hear you say that you forgive me. — She is gone ! 
she will not listen to me.” 

Isabella had advanced to the great entrance, but was 
constrained to re-enter the chapel by a keen shower of 
sleet. Terence O’Leary forthwith took advantage of her 
re-appearance. “ Lady, cast not happiness away from 
you — I plead for O’Sullivan — I plead for his happiness 
and your’s, in this solemn spot, beneath the ancient arch 
that was reared by his fathers, and over the old vault that 
contains their mortal relics. Lady, do not thwart me — 
only say that you will think of it, — that you will not re- 
ject my assistance.” 

Isabella, although highly displeased, could not help 
smiling at Terence’s enthusiastic pertinacity ; at the 
same time assuring him that he was. utterly mistaken in 
supposing that the alliance he contemplated could ever 
be effected. 

“ T almost feel wrong in having listened, though inad- 
vertently, to any thing you could say on such a subject,” 
she gravely added ; “ but I respect your grey hairs, and 
I have often heard my uncle speak in warm terms of 
your tried and faithful services. I say this,” continued 
she, “ for 1 really feel that I need an excuse ; 1 do not 
say more, for I do not wish to hurt your feelings ; and 
I now desire that you will dismiss the subject from your 
mind for ever.” 

At this moment sister Martha entered with cloaks and 
umbrellas. 

“ You were snow-bound here, Miss Kavanagh,” said 
she. “ Ha! old Terence! why did not you run to the 
parlor for these things ? How came you here ? I did 
not see you at mass.” 

“ I was at early mass,” said Terence, “ at the parish 
chapel, and I came here, having heard from your sacris- 
tan that Miss Kavanagh and her honored mother were 
staying at the convent ; I was once a servant of their 
house. 


118 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ I marvel then,” said the nun, “ that you never went 
to Castle Kavanagh to visit them, since you came to this 
neighborhood. ” 

“ I meant it,” responded the old man ; “ but I have 
not been very long here, as sister Martha knows; and 
after I quitted the army, I had always stayed, till late- 
ly, at Bally-Sullivan, which you know is a good six- 
score miles away from this ; and there I would still have 
remained, only that Mr. O’Sullivan is going to leave it, 
and the Reverend Provincial invited me here. Ah ! if 
Mr. O’Sullivan only had his rights ! This estate once 
belonged to his forefathers, long, long, before the Rally- 
vallins got it, and they sold it afterwards to a man who 
was broke by the purchase, and had to sell it in his turn ! 
1 Sic transit gloria mundi !’ Weirastrua 1” 

As they issued from the portal of the chapel, the en- 
thusiast could not avoid whispering to Isabella, “ Think 
of what I said, Miss Kavanagh — think of what I said. 
Oh ! if my vision of your happiness and his should come 
to pass, I would cry ‘ Nunc dimittis,’ for my fondest 
earthly hopes would indeed be fulfilled.” 


CHAPTER XIV. 

The srrow clothed valley and the naked tree ; 

These sympathising scenes my heart can please. 

Distress is theirs, and they resemble me. 

John Clare. 

“ Upon my word,” thought Isabella, “ my venerable 
ex-military friend is exceedingly liberal of O’Sullivan’s 
hand — l rather think O’Sullivan would not feel inclined 
to confirm the old soldier’s liberality. Mamma is posi- 
tively certain that O’Sullivan has made some arrange- 
ment with Lucinda Nugent — indeed I thought, two or 
three times, that I saw certain telegraphic tokens of in- 
telligence between them, that one could not well mistake. 
Undoubtedly O'Sullivan has many good points, and I 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


US 


think Lucinda is a fortunate girl. The fellow is exceed- 
ingly handsome, which is never overlooked by us wo- 
men ; — he is very intelligent — an incomparable moralist, 
and an incomparable fox-hunter. I saw him take a 
smashing leap acress the old paddock wall, when a field 
full of horsemen were obliged to go a quarter of a mile 
round, and not a soul would venture to clear the wall ex- 
cept himself and the huntsman. Even Mordaunt rode 
round — ” (here our soliloquist sighed) — “ heigho ! I 
trust and hope O’Sullivan may not break Lucinda’s 
heart — If truth be in man, I would depend on him — 
there is in his manner a manly frankness and sincerity 
that seems wholly incompatible with deceit.” 

As Isabella bestowed this mental eulogy upon O’Sul- 
livan, she reached the convent parlor, in which Mrs. Ka- 
vanagh and the abbess were seated, enjoying the warmth 
of a blazing peat fire. The comfortable, warm little 
parlor seemed more cozy from its contrast with the win- 
try scene without. The sleet shower was now over, but 
masses of snow clouds still hovered aloft, and the wild 
expanse of scrubby and disforested mooiland was cover- 
ed with a dazzling sheet, of three inches deep. And 
here and there a solitary oak upreared its black, forked, 
withered trunk, standing out in strong relief from the 
whitened waste around. 

The fire-place occupied a corner of the room, adjoin- 
ing a deep bay window, so that while seated by its ge- 
nial hearth, you could look upon the park without. The 
ladies cast their eyes on its snow-clothed surface, and 
heaped fresh fuel on the fire. 

“ You lingered behind us in the chapel, Isabella,” said 
Mrs. Kavanagh, pressing her daughter’s hand affection- 
ately. 

“ Yes, mother ; and I formed an acquaintance there.” 

“ An acquaintance ? with the statue of old Lord Cor- 
mac O’Callaghan ?” 

“ No — not with anybody’s statue, but wdth an old de- 
pendent of our family, Terence O’Leary.” 

“ Ah, I remember Terence very well. He enlisted the 
year after I was married, got tired of the army, and was 
purchased out, as I heard, by young O’Sullivan, who 


120 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


was hardly more than a boy at the time ; — I should like 
to see old Terence ; he must be nearly sixty now — I did 
not observe him at mass.” 

“ He entered the chapel after service, Mother, through 
the sacristan’s door, that opens on the little cloister. He 
seemed perfectly to know who 1 was, although of course 
I could not have any recollection of him.” 

“I suppose, my dear, he heard we were here, from 
some of the attendants?” 

“ He is constantly here,” said the abbess ; “ he be- 
longs to a confraternity to whom 1 have given permission 
to recite their rosaries and prayers in the convent- 
chapel.” 

The casual mention of O’Sullivan’s name, led the ab- 
bess to detail many incidents connected with his boy- 
hood and earlier youth: she was his aunt, and loved him 
with truly maternal affection. 

“ He was ever a fearless and honorable fellow,” said 
she ; “ I remember when he scarcely was seven years of 
age, that he broke a handsome china vase, for which on 
the following day he heard his father severely reprimand- 
ing the footman. * Do not be angry with Frank,’ said 
my honest-hearted boy, coming manfully forward, c it 
was I, and not Frank, who broke the vase.’ — Parents and 
relatives keep traits such as these treasured up; it is 
happy when the promise they afford is realised in after- 
life.’ 5 

“ I am sorry,” said Mrs. Kavanagh, “ that his fortunes 
withdraw him from Ireland ; I earnestly wish him suc- 
cess in his career.” 

While the abbess and Mrs. Kavanagh thus conversed, 
Isabella’s eye wandered over the desolate park, and rest- 
ed on a spot where the rude, neglected avenue emerged 
from one of the numerous thickets. A thin veil of mist 
seemed drawn around the spot, and a broken gleam of 
sunlight coldly fell upon a large old thorn, that overhung 
the path a few paces apart from the thicket. The effect 
of light and shadow was extremely beautiful, and rivet- 
ed the eye of Isabella, who gazed with an attention that 
was quickened into curiosity, when she saw a horseman 
issue from among the leafless bushes, and rapidly ad- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


121 


vance in the direction of the convent. Ere yet he had 
approached very nearly, his bold and noble bearing, and 
distinguished form, would have led her to recognize 
O’Sullivan ; but could she have entertained a doubt of 
his identity, it would have been solved by the spirited 
ease with which he cleared the wide-sunk fence that sur- 
rounded the enclosures of the convent, instead of adopt- 
ing the more tedious process of dismounting, to apply 
for the key of the outer gate. 

“ That is precisely the style,” thought Isabella, “ in 
which I saw him leap the old paddock wall near Castle 
Kavanagh — he sits his horse exactly as a wild duck sits 
on the wave of a heaving sea, as free, as careless, as 
composed.” 

While O’Sullivan’s equestrian prowess thus elicited 
Isabella’s admiration, the portal-bell was rung, and in 
another instant, his name was announced to the abbess. 
She rose with alacrity to welcome her nephew ; and 
when he entered the apartment, Isabella felt a deeper 
color steal over her face, as she thought of the visions in 
which Terence O’Leary had so recently indulged. When 
the Kavanaghs had greeted him, 

“ I have come, aunt,” he said to the abbess, “ to bid 
you farewell. A few weeks hence, and I leave Ireland. 
I could not quit the kingdom without the satisfaction of 
once more beholding you ; — when absent, I shall often 
think of the peaceful little parlor of Conela.” 

“ God bless you, my dear, w herever you go. I am 
glad to perceive your spirits are not blanked, on the eve 
of your voyage to a distant hemisphere.” 

“ Blanked^ No! I am full of hope — I trust I shall 
return to my father’s hall, in a condition that may enable 
me to restore it to its ancient splendor. I have also a 
better ambition than this ; — I must earn the means to 
pay my father’s debts — I cannot be happy while they 
are unpaid ; but success or failure rests not with myself 
— I can only work — trust me, however, for energy and 
perseverance.” 

“ Will you go to bid farewell at Martagon,” inquired 
the abbess. To do her every justice, the question was 
asked in all the artlessness of utter ignorance ; neverthe- 
vol. i. 11 


12-2 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


less it called up a conscious glow to the cheek of O’Sul- 
livan, which increased from his intuitive perception that 
Isabella noticed it. 

“ That blush reveals all,” thought Isabella. 

O’Sullivan evaded replying, and somewhat irrelevantly 
began to praise the superior comfort of the olden fire- 
places, where the fuel instead of being caged in a grate, 
was confined by iron dogs upon the hearth. Whereup- 
on he assiduously replenished the fire, and examined the 
curious old mantel-piece, with antiquarian interest. It 
was, indeed, a strange and monumental looking speci- 
men of ancient handywork ; the upper part was carved 
in deep relief, into compartments, in e^ch of which stood 
the figure of mitred prelate, cowled monk, or mail-clad 
knight. 

Finding her query unanswered, the abbess did not re- 
peat it, but asked if her nephew had recently been at 
Knockanea. 

“ He had,” he said, “ paid his parting respects.” 

“ And how were our friends there occupied?” asked 
Mrs. Kavanagh. 

“ Mrs. Mersey was instructing Prince Gruffenhausen 
and Mr. Jonathan Lucas in philosophy. She quoted 
Dr. Johnson, to prove that whatever withdraws the mind 
from the real to the ideal, from the present to the future, 
advances us in the scale of rational beings. Gruffenhau- 
sen said that his own mind was incessantly fixed upon 
die Zukunft.” 

“And what did Jonathan say ?” 

“ Jonathan said Dr. Johnson was quite right — that ev- 
ery rational man kept his eye on the future, and that he, 
Jonathan, was accordingly looking forward to a future 
cockfight, and training his cocks for it.” 

“What an admirable application of Dr. Johnson 
wisdom !” 

“ Yes, and extremely characteristic of Jonathan. 

“ Does Mrs. Mersey engross as much of Baron Les- 
chen’s attention as ever ?” 

“Upon my word, I think she appeared to divide him 
pretty fairly with Lady Jacintha ; so far, at least, as my 
limited opportunities enabled me to judge. She was 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


123 


taking lessons in ecarte from the Baron, and appeared 
quite a novice in the game ; which amused me very 
much, as I was told by a quiet looker on, who knows 
the widow well, that she is a first rate proficient in 
ecarte , and qualified to instruct five hundred Baron Les- 
chens.” 

“ How like her! but no doubt she had excellent rea- 
sons for assuming the raw novice — the widow never acts 
without a motive.” 

“ Well,” said O’Sullivan, “ we may be amused at her 
dexterous manoeuvres, but let us do her justice ; it is al- 
lowed, on all hands, that she made a most excellent wife 
to each of her three husbands.” 

“ She must be a very entertaining person,” said the 
abbess ; “ one generally hears of her saying or doing 
something piquant.” 

“ You may soon have an opportunity of judging for 
yourself,” replied O’Sullivan, “ for I heard her proposing 
a tour, in which Conela was certainly to be included. She 
often amuses herself picking up legends and traditions, 
and she hears you have stores of them here.” 

^Should she visit me, then,” said the abbess, “ I 
shall certainly commit her to Terence O’Leary, whose 
memory is fraught with old chronicles, and who takes a 
real pleasure in telling them.” 

“Poor Terence,” said Mrs. Kavanagh, u I must see 
him ; he was a favorite, and very deservedly too, with 
my husband.” 

Terence was summoned, and expressed, with warmth, 
the pleasure he sincerely felt at once more seeing his 
old mistress. His eye glistened as he gazed on Isabel- 
la and O’Sullivan, and he experienced an intensely af- 
fectionate interest in both, which may probably be some- 
what unintelligible to such of our readers as know not 
the depth, the devotedness of mingled gratitude and 
love which binds an old dependant to the family of his 
hereditary benefactors. This is, alas ! a feeling too sel- 
dom to be found in our commerce with the world ; it is 
smothered and quenched by the sordid selfishness which 
generally regulates our social connections. Its excess 
may be absurd — enthusiastic ; but evil is the breast in 
which it dwells not. 


124 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


Isabella felt angry with herself for not having more 
severely reprimanded the unauthorized suggestions of 
Terence in the cloister; but in Terence there was 
something that disarmed resentment ; his manner, 
even while uttering the words she thought deserving 
of rebuke, was at once so respectful, so earnest, and 
affectionate; his voice, and glance, were so placid 
and parental ; in the recent offering of his orisons to 
heaven there had been so much of edifying, unaffect- 
ed piety ; and in the train of thinking his brief conver- 
sation had developed, there was so much of downright 
unworldliness and simplicity, that Isabella felt fir more 
inclined to pardon the indiscreet zeal of the enthusiast, 
than to resent his officiousness. She also made allow- 
ance for the license which, in many parts of Ireland, 
custom has from time immemorial permitted to ancient 
dependants; and the result of all these mingled conside- 
rations, was the full, free pardon of Terence. 

The dusk of evening fell ; the relatives conversed on all 
the subjects suggested by O’Sullivan’s approaching de- 
parture ; the night wore apace ; and when the convent 
clock struck ten, O’Sullivan shook hands with the Kava- 
naghs, received his aunt’s blessing and embrace, and 
mounting his steed, which Terence had foddered in an 
out-house, bent his way to the neighboring village of KiU 
drummy, where he meant to sleep. 


CHAPTER XV. 

When the moon is beaming low, 

On frozen lake and hills of snow, 

Blithe and merrily we go. 

Old Scotch Ballad. 

Blest independence, oft I bait ye, 

How blithe I ’d be to call ye matey 1 

Robert Bujrxs. 


The pale moon gleamed faintly on the snowy waste, 
as our hero turned from the convent gate into the park ; 


THE! HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


125 

and he was spurring forward his horse, when Terence said, 

“ Won’t your honor please to slacken your pace, and 
I ’ll bear you company V 9 

“ I don’t care if 1 do,” said O’Sullivan, dropping the 
rain on the horse’s neck. 

“ And now,” said the old man solemnly, “ the time is 
coming to a point r and you have made up your mind to 
quit your native country, not knowing what chances may 
betide you in the far distant land that you ’re bound for.” 

“ We must trust in God, Terence, and labor and hop# 
for the best.” 

“ And you will, then, surely go ?” 

“Undoubtedly. When did you ever know me change 
a purpose I had formed after long deliberation ?” 

“ But if you found your purpose was an unwise one,” 
remonstrated Terence, “or, in short, that, on reconside- 
ration, it might be mended ?” 

“ My old friend, I have not yet discovered that, nor 
do I think it likely, either, that I shall. Can a man ©f 
my principles and feelings sit quietly down in the con- 
sciousness that, although he is protected by an entail, yet 
creditors have just demands against him ? Or, to speak 
of less important considerations, how can I bear to re- 
main inactive in a wrecked and ruinous abode, when the 
exercise of manly vigor, and whatever energy and talent 
God has given me, may perhaps restore it to its former 
splendor? And, I ask you, is not this a good reason for 
going abroad ?” 

“ Undoubtedly, it would be one,” responded Terence, 
“ provided that you could not pay your father’s debts, 
and restore your ancient house by staying at home.” 

“ How mean you ? what prospects are open to me in 
Ireland ?” 

“ Oh, Sir, do not be angry, I implore you ; but I think 
if a few of Miss Kavanagh’s thousands could be spent at 
Bally-Sullivan, the debts might be paid, the old house re- 
paired, and the lady herself feel no great objection to 
preside there. What says your honor to the notion?” 

“ My good Terence, your zeal in my behalf makes 
you very imaginative. Once for all, it is utterly impossi- 
ble — utterly impossible,” he fervently repeated, as the 
11 * 


126 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


sweet confiding smile and lovely form of Lucinda Nu- 
gent rose to his memory. 

Terence saw at once, from O’Sullivan’s tone, that the 
impossibility was real ; though why it should be so, he 
could not for the life of him conjecture. 

“ Well, Sir, I often have wished and prayed that you 
and Miss Kavanagh might fancy each other ; but since 
it seems you don’t, I suppose there’s an end of it. 
But if it could be so, I can’t but think it would be a 
quieter, an easier, and altogether a more desirable way 
of setting the estate to rights, than wandering abroad in 
quest of fortune’s gifts, which are mighty uncertain into 
the bargain.” 

O’Sullivan continued silent, but he edified himself 
with sundry mental encomiums on disinterestedness, and 
corresponding execrations on the sordid views of for- 
tune-hunters. 

“What!” thought he, “owe your fortune to your 
wife ! How much more congenial to the spirit of a ge- 
nerous husband, were the thought that he presented 
himself to the lady of his choice, as in all respects her 
equal ! Pah ! how can a fellow bear the consciousness 
that his wants are all supplied, not from his own funds, 
but a woman’s ! How can he bear the reflection that 
his brooches, his watch-chain, his watch, nay, his very 
tailor’s bills, are dependant on the strength of his wife’s 
purse ! pah !” 

There are moments, when a train of thought com- 
menced in “ sober sadness,” in a mind alive to percep- 
tions of the ludicrous, will end in any thing but sad so- 
lemnity. 

“ Oh, what a horror,” thought our hero, as his mind 
reverted to Lucinda, “ what a horror ! the idea that she 
should pay for my inexpressibles !” 

It would seem that the reflection had in some mode 
or other found its way to his lips, for Terence immedi- 
ately answered, 

“ Ay, master; but it would be a great deal worse if 
she was to wear them.” 

“How quick your ears are, you old rascal ! I did not 
intend you to hear that.” 


THE fr^SBAND-HUNTER, 127 

u Then speak lower A'/ise next time,” said Terence, 
“ for my ears are not wooden, I assure your honor. But 
if your high spirit scorns thle thought of being under 
obligations to a wife, I must say that your honor has a 
poor opinion of the women. They are tender-hearted, 
generous souls, and never are so happy as when they are 
of service to the men they love.” 

Terence continued to talk until they reached the vil- 
lage; where O’Sullivan, consigning himself to the com- 
forts afforded by the little inn's best bed-room, sought 
respite in a few hours' slumber, from the varied and ha- 
rassing anxieties that crowded on his mind. 

’ -V- £ c 

TT T? *7v* 7v *7v A 7v VV* 

At an early hour on the following morning, Isabella 
and her mother left Conela on their route to Dublin. 
Notwithstanding the discouragement of Sister Martha, 
the former felt her penchant for a conventual life re- 
turn very strongly, as she quitted the precincts of the 
lonely, quiet convent, to re-enter the busy and unsatis- 
fying scenes of social life. 

“ Brief as has been my sojourn at Conela,” thought 
she, Ci it has left an indelible impression.” 


CHAPTER XVI. 

Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures 
Whilst the landscape round it measures : 

Russet lawns and fallows grey, 

Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; 

Mountains on whose barren breast, 

The laboring clouds do often rest ; 

Meadows trim, with daisies pied, 

Shallow brooks and rivers wide, 

Towers and battlements it sees, 

Bosom’d high in tufted trees. L’ Allegro. 

When the carriage which conveyed our fair travelers 
reached Kildrummy, they immediately engaged their 
seats in the stage-coach for the following morning. Isa- 
bella, who never had traveled in such a conveyance be- 


128 the husband-hitter. 

fore, was afraid of being brou&h*rinto juxta position with 
vulgarity or impertinence ; b/ut consoled herself by the 
reflection that another day nyould terminate these desa - 
gremens. / 

The coach was drawn put at an early hour before the 
door of the inn, and the/ horses stood in readiness to re- 
commence their daily labors. One of their fellow-travel- 
ers, a stout, broad, re/clfaced, woman, entered the vehicle 
when it was ready Ao start, and on seating herself, en- 
countered an obstr uction in the roof of the coach, which 
was too low to accommodate a prodigious plume of feath- 
ers, that adorned her dingy velvet bonnet. 

“Oh dear! what shall I do ? my elegant new plume 
of feathers are entirely ruinated. But this comes,” con- 
tinued the lady fastidiously, “ of traveling in stage coach- 
es, and the like.” 

“ True for you, Ma’am,” observed Mr. Mulligan, an- 
other of their coach companions ; “ it never could have 
happened if you traveled on Paddy’s barouche, as you ’re 
used to.” 

“I protest, Sir, I don’t understand you,” said the 
lady, with dignity. 

“ Why, Madam, if you want plain language, Paddy’s 
barouche is what we call the car that takes the corn to 
mill and the potatoes to market.” 

“ Sir, your allusions are improper and despicable,” re- 
torted Mrs. Patten, with still greater dignity than before, 
“ and I beg to assure you they are quite incomprehen- 
sible.” 

“ I wish the coach would start,” said Mr. Mulligan, 
who discontinued his elegant raillery, when he saw the 
very serious offence it gave Mrs. Patten ; “ these fellows 
hurry one so, that one cannot eat a bit of breakfast, hard- 
ly, and then, when you ’re seated in the coach, they 
keep lingering and lingering.” 

“ Indeed, Sir,” observed the relenting Mrs. Patten, 
u you are quite right there ; it ’s past all patience, to be 
hurried about eating one’s bit ; but I was up to the 
rogues in my own way.” 

“ How so. Ma’am ?” demanded the waggish Mr. Mul- 
ligan. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


129 


“ Why, thinks I to myself, if they make me pay for 
my breakfast, I ’ve a right to the worth of my money ; 
and if they don’t let me eat it in the inn, why F'll take 
the liberty to eat in the coach, and no thanks to them. 
So, Sir, — see here,” she continued, producing an equiv- 
ocal bundle wrapped up in brown paper, and containing 
sundry subordinate packages, “ I ’ve got some tay that 
I whipped away out of the canister unknownst , and 
poor stuff it is ; and I ’ve some lumps of white sugar, 
and a couple of rolls, and the leg and liver wing of the 
could chicken ; — a folly to let it go with them, the ras- 
cals ! Upon my conscience if I did ’nt take care of my- 
self, 1 don’t know who else would.” 

“Undoubtedly, Ma’am ; you were perfectly right.” 

“ I wish, Sir, you would be good enough to see what ’s 
keeping the coachman from starting.” 

“I believe I can guess, Ma’am ; the poor fellow just 
stopped to swallow a cup of tay with his sweet-heart — 
we must make allowances, Ma’am, in affairs of the heart, 
you know, Ma’am.” 

Mrs. Patten received this observation with an air of 
asperity, intended, no doubt, as a gentle reproof to the 
wit. Mulligan jumped out of the coach, and espied the 
coachman in one of the stables, exchanging the most 
tender protestations with a blowzy-looking housemaid, 
and immediately opened a brisk volley of slang at the 
delinquent. Meanwhile Mrs. Patten, who was some- 
what incommoded by certain bundles and bandboxes 
which she had piled on the cushion at her side, began to 
transfer a portion of her moveables to the seat which 
Mulligan had vacated. This manoeuvre afforded her 
some relief until the return of Mulligan, who soon re-ap- 
peared from the stables, whispering and winking with 
the ostler in a manner peculiarly cognoscent. Some 
plan, it would seem, was in process of concoction be- 
tween them ; and when the wit had imparted his instruc- 
tions to the ostler, he set his arms a-kimbo, and leaned 
with his back against the sign-post, grinning with inimU 
table self-complacency. While he continued in this at- 
titude, some village acquaintance accosted him ; he im- 
mediately dismissed his self-complacent smiles, lest his 


130 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


humbler friend might interpret his evident good humor 
as a license to familiarity. 

“ Yob ’re going to Dublin, I believe, Mr. Mulligan V 1 

“ Can’t say, 1 ’m sure ; that ’s just as I may fancy.” 

“You’ve booked your place, though?” 

“ That never would make me go, if the frolic took me 
to stay behind,” replied Mulligan, with the most aristo- 
cratic contempt of expense ; “ I care as little for the fare 
as any man li ving. ,> 

“It’s well to be rich, Mr. Mulligan — ha, ha 

“ No doubt it ’s a comfortable thing,” answered Mul- 
ligan, with an air of experience. 

“I suppose you’ll go as far as Ballinaquod, at any 
rate ?” 

“ I positively don’t know ; that ’s just as I relish my 
company — there’s a conceited old dame in the coach, 
and her daughter ; — faith the daughter is a nice crature 
— that’s an undeniably imperative seduction to thravel, 
I must own.” 

Isabella fortunately did not hear this tribute to her 
charms. 

The hern now loudly sounded, and Mulligan, followed 
by the coachman, approached the door. On entering 
the vehicle, he found his progress impeded by the en- 
trenchments Mrs. Patten had thrown up in his absence. 

“ Confound it !” he exclaimed to the coachman ; 
“ we ’ve got lots of trumpery here !” 

“ I’m sure I may bring my little boxes and things,” 
said Mrs. Patten, “ they don’t take up so much room.” 

“ Then keep them at your own side, Ma’am ; you can 
do so very easy, for this is a six coach, and we ’re only 
four inside.” 

“ Oh, Mr. Mulligan, pray be civil and neighborlike,” 
interposed the coachman ; “ your honor was always a 
man for the ladies, you know.” And coachee good-na- 
turedly busied himself in arranging Mrs. Patten’s things 
so as best to accommodate all parties, while the lady in- 
cessantly besought him “ not to crush her Injee shawl.” 

“ Put over them band-boxes, too,” said Mulligan. 

“ Oh, Sir, it won’t much inconvenience you to let 
them stay where they are ? ” smd the lady. 


The Husband-Hunted. 


131 


“ Inconvenience me ?” retorted Mulligan, “ why, 1 
vow, Ma’am, I don’t see where I can sit, unless in your 
lap.” 

“ In my lap, you undecent inthruder !” screamed Mrs. 
Patten. 

“Ay, in your lap, Ma'am,” said Mulligan, winking at 
the coachman, “ and a fine soft seat I should have of it.” 

“ Isn’t he a mighty pleasant gentleman?” said the 
coachman to Isabella, who; he doubted not, enjoyed Mr. 
Mulligan's wjt as much as he did. 

“ Mighty disagreeable that the coach should be sur- 
rounded with them beggars,” said Mrs. Patten, as the 
mendicants solicited alms in every inharmonious variety 
of intonation. 

“ Oh, poor creatures,” said Mulligan, who had now 
seated himself, “ one should open one’s purse-strings to 
relieve the distressed — you mustn’t be hard-hearted, 
Ma'am — indeed, cruelty isn’t in your countenance.” 

The lady vouchsafed a faint smile at this compliment; 
the beggars begged with unabated energy. 

“ Patience, my friends,” said Mulligan, “ I’ll give you 
some halfpence the minute the ostler brings me the 
change of a couple of shillings I gave him.” 

“Long life to your honor 1 Heaven bless your honor ! 
Heaven smile on the sweet face of your honor’s mother's 
handsome child !” These, and other similar ejaculations 
were heard on all sides. 

The ostler soon appeared, with mischief in his eye, 
and a tin saucepan containing some halfpence in his 
hand. Mulligan took the saucepan, and extending it 
from the window of the coach, emptied its contents on 
the ground, exclaiming, “ Here, my honest rogues! di- 
vide this among you.” 

A grand general scramble instantly commenced, min- 
gled with the screams of the beggars, who dropped the 
half-pence out of their hands as fast as they picked 
them up. Imprecations succeeded to the blessings that 
had at first been so liberally showered upon Mulligan, for 
the half-pence, which had previously been made red hot 
en the kitchen fire, burned the fingers of the yelling men- 
dicants, amidst the uproarous laughter of Mulligan, the 
coachman, and the confederate ostler. 


132 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ Hang you all, for a pack of unmanageable rascals !” 
cried Mulligan; “ you would not be satisfied without 
getting the money, and now, by goles ! you 're cursing 
me for giving it.” 

Mulligan’s wit was not wholly unsuccessful in produc- 
ing an impression upon Mrs. Patten. She laughed 
long and loudly at the dilemma in which he had in- 
volved the beggars, and at length said, 

“ Well, there ’s no denying but you are a pleasant 
gentleman.” 

“ Ma’am, I’m as proud as a peacock you should do 
me the honor to think so ; I only wish” (looking at Isa- 
bella and her mother) “ That these silent ladies here 
could be brought to form the same opinion.” 

Mrs. Kavanagh looked severely repulsive, and Isabella 
continued steadily perusing a volume of Scott’s novels. 

The coach drove ofF, and the conversation was wholly 
sustained for many miles by Mulligan and Mrs. Patten, 
who spoke about their fashionable connexions and ac- 
quaintances. 

“ You know Lord Ballyvallin, then 1” said Mrs. Patten, 
in answer to some observation of Mulligan. 

“Oh dear yes; his lordship is prodigiously fond of 
me ; he says he expects I am to be his right-hand man 
at the election.” 

“1 hope my friends Lady Ballyvallin and my Lady 
Jacintha are well,” said Mrs. Patten ; “ my lady looked 
poorly the last timed saw her ; l think it was the rheu- 
matics she had. Says she to me, ‘ You always look stout, 
Mrs. Patten ; 1 wish I had your health and strength/ says 
she. Ton my veracity she ’s a sweet woman — a sweet 
woman, — Mr. Mulligan — and while I think of it, Sir, 
you needn’t tell her ladyship when next you see her, 
that you met me in a stage-coach, you know.” 

“ Oh, rely upon it, Ma’am, that 1 shall not articulate a 
particle about a public conveyance in connexion with 
your name, Mrs. Patten — honor bright, you know, for 
that. My friends near Ballyvallin’s place are all as pres- 
sing as possible to have me among them ; but, somehow, 
when I go to that neighborhood, I always give the pre- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 133 

Terence to Bally vallin himself. Indeed he deserves it — I 
must say ; he has been very kind — very.’’ 

44 Do you know the Kavanaghs, of Castle Kavanagh ?” 

44 Oh, perfectly — i ’ve danced twenty times with the 
girl — she ’s undoubtedly an elegant creature.” 

In spite of the discomforts of their situation, Isabella 
and her mother involuntarily smiled at this claim of fa- 
miliar acquaintance on the part of a low coxcomb whom 
they never had even heard of before. 

44 They say she ’ll have a great fortune,” resumed Mrs. 
Patten ; 44 by all accounts her uncle’s as rich as a Jew.” 

“ Ay — she’s well worth looking after.” 

44 I wonder, Mr. Mulligan, that you weren’t making 
faces at her yourself, with the opportunities you must 
have had, being so often in her company.” 

44 Why, Ma’am, as to that, I had some thoughts, I 
must confess, of making up to her at one time ; but then 
you know a young man should not be to precipitate; 
there is nothing I so much dread as throwing myself 
away — I should take more time to look about me.” 

44 Do you know, sir, I heard that the young lady in 
question lately broke a poor gentleman’s heart.” 

44 Indeed ?” said Mr. Mulligan. 

44 There was one Mr. Mordaunt at the castle, that was 
ready to jump out of a five-pair window for her sake: 
she agreed to marry him, they say, and when the day 
came, Miss changed her mind and jilted the poor man, 
who broke his heart in consequence of the crule trate- 
ment he resaved, and married some girl in England.” 

44 Upon my honor, then,” said Mr. Mulligan, drawing 
himself up very consequentially, 44 I must say F consider 
myself exceedingly fortunate in not having proposed for 
the young lady.” 

44 Fortunate indeed,” said Mrs. Patten, 44 for it’s real- 
ly and truly a terrible job to be jilted. But now, Sir, if 
you ’d permit one to ask a friendly question, I would ven- 
ture to inquire why you aren’t doing something in the 
matrimonial way ? It isn’t impertinent, I hope, to ob« 
sarve, that I don’t think you have much time to lose.” 

44 You have me there, Ma’am, most unquestionably; 

you. i* 1 2 


134 


THE HUSBAND-HUJMTEfc. 


but prudence, Ma’am — prudence is my polar star. I ’m 
always apprehensive of committing myself.” 

Mrs. Patten and Mulligan conversed incessantly with- 
out exhibiting any symptoms of weariness. At length 
the lady uttered an exclamation of surprise on looking 
from the window ; her talkative companion inquired the 
cause. 

“As sure as I live,” she exclaimed, “ it ’s a runaway 
love affair — I protest I believe it’s trying to catch the 
coach they are — look out.” 

And in order to enable Mulligan to see the objects 
that excited her attention, Mrs. Patten receded from the 
window. 

There were two young quakers, a man and woman, 
in a gig, which was driven at full speed by the quaker- 
ess ; they had been trying to overtake the coach, and 
had now succeeded ; the quaker, as his fair companion 
whipped along her tandem steeds, repeatedly looked 
back, as if to see whether lie and his young “ friend ” 
were pursued. In a very few minutes the coach stop- 
ped to change horses, and the runaway couple stopped 
also. 

“ Did I not drive thee nicely, Obadiah ?” inquired the 
quakeress smirkingly, as she flung down the reins. 

“ Verily thou didst, Priscilla ; hovvbeit my heart trem- 
bleth and my flesh quaketh, lest thy father should over- 
take us before we ratify our union in presence of the 
friends assembled at the house of friend Ephraim Bugg.” 

“Fear not my father, Obadiah; he knoweth not the 
road we have taken ; and should he attempt pursuit he 
will be much more likely to search for us at Martha Per- 
kins’s. n 

“Truly, friend Priscilla,” replied Obadiah, trembling 
with fear, “thou art a maiden of an ensnaring eye and 
a seductive tongue, or I never had adventured this for 
thee ; yet my heart much misgiveth me that if thy fa- 
ther overtook us, he would lay the full length of his 
oaken cudgel on my shoulders ; albeit he is a man of 
peace when the wrathful, carnal Adam is not stirred up 
within him.” 

“ I have taken thee out of his reach, Obadiah, as our 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


135 


smoking steeds bear witness. Did I not manage them 
well, for so unpractised a hand? Verily, Obadiah, thou 
owest me a kiss, for my nice charioteering.” 

ci Yea truly., Priscilla, and I will pay thee when we 
get into yonder leathern conveniency,” (meaning, by 
this periphrasis, the stage coach,) “ but I am now too 
much agitated by the undelectable sensation of terror — 
Hark ye ! ostler ! take these horses into the stable, and 
see the poor beasts supplied with all their necessity lack- 
eth — I will bestow on thee a kiss by-and-bye, friend Pris- 
cilla, but it were unmeet and indecorous to caress thee in 
presence of so many rude folk, beside which I very con- 
siderably quake, I tell thee.” 

“ Verily, Obadiah,” said Priscilla, “ if I had not more 
courage than thou hast, we never would have done this 
thing.” 

“ Thou speakest the truth, friend Priscilla,” replied 
Obadiah. 

The friends got into the coach, having previously giv- 
en the ostler a strict charge to take care of the gig and 
horses ; the poor animals had been driven so hard, that 
they were utterly incapable of proceeding any farther, 
but the quakeress entertained no fear of a premature 
discovery, as she had taken some steps, with the aid of 
a domestic confederate, to throw her father, whose oppo- 
sition was most to be dreaded, entirely off the scent. 
The coach was perhaps not exactly the vehicle she would 
have selected, as the meetest conveyance for herself and 
her fugitive compeer : but post-horses were too expen- 
sive for her scanty funds, and her father’s steeds were, 
as we have said, knocked up for the present by their ra- 
pid morning’s journey. 

Mrs. Patten’s luggage was removed, sadly against its 
owner’s wish, to the boot of the coach, and Mulligan 
took his seat by her side ; the “ friends” sat next each 
other on the opposite side, pressing each other’s hands, 
and smiling in each other’s, faces, although, if the truth 
must be told, friend Obadiah’s smiles and pressures seem- 
ed sadly constrained and lugubrious, for the hapless 
youth was under the influence of two conflicting 
sources of terror ; fear of Priscilla’s displeasure compell- 


136 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


ed him to grin and squeeze her hand in sympathy with 
the grins and squeezes with which she favored him; 
while on the other hand the awful apprehension of her 
father’s vengeance embittered the sweets of the elope- 
ment. This ludicrous constraint was visible in poor 
Obadiah’s countenance and manner for some time; but 
his courage seemed wonderfully raised by some whis- 
pers from Priscilla ; and it was evident that his self-pos- 
session increased in proportion as the coach rolled him 
farther away from the dreaded vicinage of Priscilla’s 
father. 

“ Faith,” said Mulligan, “ you two seem to like each 
other mighty well ; you havn’t got a word for anybody 
else.” 

“ Verily I have an esteem for friend Priscilla,” answer- 
ed Obadiah, looking modestly at his “ friend,” and then 
at Mulligan, with an air demurely languishing and 
sheepish. 

“ I ’ll engage,” said Mrs. Patten, “ she likes you as 
well as you like Aer.” 

“ Verily I have an esteem for friend Obadiah,” replied 
Priscilla. 

“ Oho ! I think esteem is a cold foundation to build 
an elopement upon,” observed Mulligan. 

“An elopement!” exclaimed Priscilla, in horror; 
“friend, thou art uncivil.” 

“Upon my oath I don’t know what else to call it,” 
said Mulligan, somewhat abashed by the steady manner 
of the fair quaker’s reproof. 

“Friend, thou art profane,” said Priscilla. 

“ Well, what else can I say, unless that you ’re elop- 
ing with each other as fast as ever you can, which I guess 
is the truth?” 

“ Thou mightest, with more seemliness, say that we 
are rapidly transferring ourselves to a locality of greater 
convenience, for the purposes whereunto our souls are 
inclined ; but thou may’s not use that vain and trifling 
word elopement , the which is applied to the motions of 
those children of vanity who are still in the darkness of 
the bondage of the ancient Adam.” 

“ And aren’t you afraid, Ma’am, that some old uncle, 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


137 


or father, may come scampering after you before you ac- 
complish your purpose, which I take to be matrimony ?” 

“ Friend, she who is upright in her purpose feareth 
nought. 5 ’ 

“ Bravely said, Miss f 5 exclaimed Mrs. Patten. 

“ But this young gentleman/’ said Mulligan, (t he’s 
not quite so stout about the matter.” 

“ He’ll come on” said Priscilla encouragingly ; “ he’ll 
conquer his timidity, I promise thee.” And she smiled 
on Obadiah, as if to re-assure him, at the same time pat- 
ting him upon the back, 

“ Well, I declare, Miss, that your courage is wonder- 
ful/’ said Mrs. Patten ; “ my poor dear Mr. Patten that 
is gone, courted me for fifteen months before I had the 
courage to say yes.” 

“ If thy suitor was pleasing in thine eyes, friend, I think 
it would have needed more courage to say no.” 

“ You beat all the women ever I met !” cried Mulligan, 
in high admiration; “I wish, ’pon my honor, that I had 
the superlative luck to be your sweetheart.” 

“ Friend,” replied Priscilla, “ as to any superiority over 
other women, which thy civility ascribes unto me, I only 
speak the thing I think, deeming the open honest truth 
the right policy on all occasions. Touching the contin- 
gency thou hast insinuated, of thy being my sweetheart , 
I may truly say, heaven forbid ! I like thee not ; regarding 
thy person as highly unattractive, thy manners coarse 
and forward, and thy occasional adjurations as unmeet 
and unsavory.” 

“ And now, Miss, what would you do, if I went and 
informed your father of your frolics, just out of pure re- 
venge for your uncivil observation on my person and 
manners ?” 

‘ 4 Friend, I defy thee. Firstly, thou knowest not who 
my father is, nor where he li vet h ; and secondly, even if 
thou didst possess that knowledge, thou wouldst not 
have time to avail thyself of it before friend Obadiah and 
myself should have our union duly ratified and register- 
ed in the presence of trusty and excellent friends, to 
whose abode we are rapidly hastening.” 

Mulligan swore that he was fairly at fault ; that Miss 

13 * 


138 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


Priscilla was a tar for all weathers, and that there was no 
being up to her. 

“ What mountains are these ?” demanded Mrs. Patten, 
as the road entered a deep glen between two dusky 
chains of hills. 

“They are called the Carragheen Dhu,” replied Mul- 
ligan, “ and are the finest shooting ground in Ireland. 
There 's robbers, too, among them/’ 

“Robbers!” repeated Mrs. Patten in terror. 

“ Ay, robbers,” said Mulligan, who took delight in her 
fears; “ there's a desperate gang in these mountains ; a 
friend of mine was lately robbed by a fellow, who first 
took the arms from the guard and coachman, and when 
he had robbed a whole coachfull, returned the arms, 
saying they were in very safe hands with them.” 

“ Bless us all !” exclaimed Mrs. Patten, in piteous 
alarm. 

“ Friend, dost thou speak the truth V y asked Obadiah. 

“ Every word as true as can be. The captain is call- 
ed Big Faddy , and he goes about the country, some- 
times disguised as a beggarman, and sometimes as a 
smuggler.” 

“ Oh, what shall I do, if he comes upon us?” exclaim- 
ed Mrs. Patten ; “ I have a hundred and thirteen pounds, 
seven and fourpence half-penny in my pocket.” 

“I wish you had left it behind you,” said Mulligan ; 
“ for robbers have cursedly keen noses, and our throats 
may be cut in compliment to your hundreds.” 

“Thou speakest frightful ihings,” said Obadiah, evi- 
dently terrified. “ My skin creepeth, as I hearken to 
thy words.” 

“ Fear nothing, friend Obadiah,” said Priscilla, patting 
him again upon the back, to encourage him ; “ should he 
whom they call Big Paddy rudely assail us, I, even I my- 
self, will defend thee, my poor lamb, as long as I have 
strength for that purpose ; so let not thy tender skin cur- 
dle into goose-flesh.” 

“ Friend, I thank thee,” answered Obadiah, meekly. 

“ ’Pon my sacred honor you 're a wonderful heroine,” 
said Mulligan ; “ I wish my own sweet-heart was like 
you.” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 139 

“ Your own sweet-heart,” said Mrs. Patten. “ I 
thought you had none.” 

“I didn’t say that” answered Mulligan knowingly. 

“Could she drive a gig-tandern ?” inquired Obadiah. 

“ Pori honor I can’t say, having never seen her try ; 
but I know the first time I saw her, she was larruping a 
lame donkey down Constitution Hill, and she made him 
cut capers like a bear upon a gridiron.” 

The coach now stopped. “ Ladies and gentlemen / 5 
said the coachman, coming to the door, “ be pleased to 
’light till we pass the broken bridge.” 

The party accordingly got out ; the coachman led the 
horses by their bridles over the dangerous bridge, the 
battlements of which had been carried away by a flood, 
while the roadway was barely wide enough to allow the 
coach, with no small care and difficulty, to pass. 

“ How lucky we passed the bridge before dark,” said 
Mrs. Patten. 

“ Indubitably, Madam. But you do not know all the 
dangers that are yet before you. Big Paddy and his 
merry boys haunt the hills of Carragheen, and if they don ; t 
help themselves to a share of the contents of your long 
pocket, you may think yourself particularly fortunate.” 

The dusk of evening descended as our travelers enter- 
ed a ravine on whose southern side arose high and 
shapeless rocks, from the fissures of which, oaks and 
birch trees grew to a considerable size, notwithstanding 
the scanty nourishment the soil afforded. A stream 
rushed down a precipitous channel, the stony bed of 
which w r as darkened with a covering of sable water- 
mosses. The lamps of the coach were lighted at a soli- 
tary cabin in the glen, and Isabella gazed for some time 
on the picturesque effect of swiftly passing lights, as 
they glanced in quick succession on the dusky trees and 
rocks, that were partially shown for a single moment, by 
the red and smoky glare, and receded the next into dark 
impenetrable shadow. At length she was lulled to slum- 
ber by the monotonous tones of Mrs. Patten and Mulli- 
gan, whose colloquial exertions knew no respite. 

An hour thus passed, when she was suddenly awak- 
ened by the stopping of the coach, Mrs. Patten 


140 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


protruded her head through the window, hut imme- 
diately drew it in again, screaming out, “ save us and 
keep us, if there isn’t cars put across the road to stop 
the coach ! We are done up now, in good earnest, 
and a gang coming down the mountains, as I hope to 
be saved ! Oh, then, what will I do ! what will I do !” 

Mrs. Patten continued to give vent to her noisy woe, 
while Mrs. Kavanagh and Isabella remained silent, in 
terrified uncertainty. Mulligan compressed his lips, 
and awaited the result with scarcely less terror than 
the ladies. The coach was speedily surrounded, and 
a tall, muscular man, who acted as leader of the 
baniJ of assailants, opened the door, declaring with a 
tremendous oath that none of the “ boys” but himself 
should rob inside, lest the faymales should b e fright- 
some. He first accosted Mulligan, who sat next the 
door. 

“ I ’ve nothing about me but my watch and a trifle of 
money not worth mentioning,” said Mulligan ; “ and I ’m 
sure, captain, you ’re too much of a gentleman to ask 
me for that , when I freely give you up a hundred and 
thirteen pounds, seven and four-pence half-penny, that 
my wife here has got in her pocket.” 

Mrs. Patten was absolutely too much stupified by ter- 
ror, to disclaim the conjugal connexion so artfully assert- 
ed by Mulligan ; who followed up his dexterous exordia 
urn by saying, “ Here, wife — hand the gentleman the 
money — you won’t ask me for any thing else, captain, 
if she gives it up quietly? You wouldn’udeprive me 
of traveling charges, surely ?” 

“ Oh, certainly not,” said the captain. 

Mrs. Patten tried to mutter an ineffectual disclaimer 
of her wealth, but the captain insisted on searching her 
pockets. She was therefore obliged, with trembling 
hands, to deliver up her hoard. The captain then turn- 
ed to Priscilla. “ I ’ll thank you for your purse, Ma’am,” 
sai'd he, “and make haste, if you plase.” 

“ Art thou he whom men call Big Paddy ?” 

“ The same, at your service, Miss.” 

“ Friend, thou art dishonest.” 

“ All in the way of trade, Miss — just the same in all 


THE HUSBAVD-HUNTElt. 


141 


professions; only I do the job without any pretensions 
to honesty, which is more than other rogues can say for 
themselves.” 

“ Friend, thy mode of life is immoral.” 

“ Peradventure thou hadst better be civil to him,” 
whispered Obadiah. 

“Hand out your purse here, without giving more jaw, 
Miss, or mayhap you Ml force me, in spite of myself, to 
to be uncivil — I shouldn’t like that, for I always trate 
faymales, where I can, with daceney and p’liteness.” 

“Friend Paddy, I may not of mine own free-will ren- 
der unto thee the thing that is not thine, seeing that I 
should thereby become a participator in thy guilt ; nor 
will I suffer thee to deprive me of my purse as long as I 
can keep it.” 

“We ’ll soon see how long that will be,” answered 
Big Paddy ; “ though I ’d just beg lave to hint to you 
first, that if it’s a scruple o’ conscience that hinders you 
from giving me the purse, you may make matters square 
by making me a free honest present of it. Then there 
won’t be any robbery, you know, and 1 shall be just as 
well plased.” 

While this debate proceeded, the outside passengers 
and coachman were waging a fierce war with some of 
Big Paddy's gang, and matters were proceeding to ex- 
tremities, two of the robbers having received smashing 
blows upon their skulls from the alpeens of two coun- 
trymen, when the roll of wheels was heard, as if in quick 
pursuit; it grew nearer and louder; the galloping of 
horses was echoed through the glen, and a chaise and 
four quickly reached the scene of action. It stopped ; 
three gentlemen got out, and a muscular able-bodied 
man with a broad-brimmed hat, walked up to the door 
of the coach, shouldered aside Big Paddy, and asked, in 
a tone of mingled authority and wrath, “ Is Priscilla Ran- 
kin here ?” 

“ Oh,” groaned Obadiah, “ woe is me ! it is thy fa- 
ther !” 

“ Speak, wench,” said the angry parent. 

“ Yea, father — even so,” answered Priscilla. 

“ And that scunq Obadiah Mudge — is he here also ?” 


m 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ Yea, honoured friend,” faltered out the conscience- 
stricken Obadiah. 

“ Come out here, amorous maiden !” said the lady’s 
father. 

“ Obadiah, wilt thou stand by me, if I stand by thee V 9 
demanded friend Priscilla, stoutly. 

“ By all that’s capersome,” exclaimed Big Paddy, 
“ she’s such a varmint wench, it would almost be a sin 
to rob her.” 

“Oh, Sir,” cried Mrs. Pafcten, who had at last found 
her speech, “ help us, for pity’s sake, to beat off these 
villians of robbers, and to get back my hundred and thir- 
teen pounds seven and fourpence halfpenny, that the 
captain has got.” 

The two gentleman who accompanied friend Rankin, 
were fortunately armed, and their presence re-assured 
the travelers, who, with their assistance, succeeded in 
in capturing two of the robbers. Big Paddy made a des- 
perate fight, but at length was compelled, with a pistol 
at his head, to refund Mrs. Patten’s wealth. 

The cars that encumbered the road were removed, 
and the coach proceeded to its destination ; friend Ran- 
kin having taken his place on the roof to assist in guard- 
ing the captive freebooters, who were now safely pinion- 
ed and handcuffed together. 

It was nearly ten at night when the travelers reached 
Ballinaquod. On alighting from the coach, friend Ran- 
kin was accosted by a fiddler, who stood at the steps of 
the inn, rasping out “ Home, sweet home,” on his miser- 
able instrument. 

“Get thee gone, friend, with thy merry bit of timber,” 
said the quaker, who instantly proceeded to hand out his 
daughter and her lover. “ For thee, forward minion,” 
said he to Priscilla, when he had got his whole party in- 
to a private apartment, “ thou shalt be kept on bread and 
water for six months ; thy accomplice let me into the 
knowledge of all thy doings before thou hadst left my 
house four hours; and as for thee, Obadiah Mudge, thy 
back shall be soundly belabored ; the religion to which I 
belong, doth not permit me to raise mine arm of flesh 
against thee, so that I am compelled to hand the over 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


143 


to another, who hath no such scruples, and who will 
trounce the well, I promise thee. A runaway appren- 
tice ! a varlet that hath drank of my cup and partaken of 
my bounty ! breaking his indentures, and bringing shame 
upon my daughter ! Trounce him well, friend Manly, — 
trounce him, — yea, — ‘ belabor him, and spare not.’ ’’ 

Obadiah, paralyzed with terror, was unresistingly 
handed over to Mr. Manly’s discipline ; Priscilla earnestly 
pleaded for him, saying, that she was by far the greater 
culprit ; her entreaties, however availed not, and poor 
Obadiah was soundly thrashed. How friend Rankin sub- 
sequently disposed of his refractory apprentice and amo- 
rous daughter, our history sayeth not ; from his charac- 
teristic sagacity we are led to conclude that he made some 
arrangement that ended their dangerous juxtapostion. 

Mrs. Kavanagh and Isabella endeavored to console 
themselves for the fatigue and alarm of the day, with 
such comforts as the village inn afforded. Their apart- 
ment was a large desolate chamber, with windows to the 
rear, overlooking a small court. The air was chill, and 
the apartment felt damp, although a turf fire blazed 
briskly on the hearth. Isabella drew a chair to the fire, 
and gazed upon two greasy prints that hung over the 
mantel-piece, representing the celebrated racer Nabock- 
lish, and the famous Godolphin Arabian. Mrs. Patten 
now entered the room, and timidly ventured to approach 
the blazing hearth. 

u I hope, Miss,” said she, “ you ’ve no objection to 
my warming myself : I’m perished with the cold, and 
there isn ’t a fire in the house but this : the kitchen grate 
is just as black as twelve o’clock at night, and I don ’t 
see what chance there is of getting supper, for I saw no 
sign of fish or flesh, and the kitchen-maid tells me the 
landlady ’s going to her club.” 

“ Her club !” echoed Mrs. Kavanah. 

“ Ay, Ma’am, her club; I saw her sailing out as fine 
as a jay, padded, wadded, puffed, flounced, flowered, and 
feathered, like any queen ; here ’s the waiter, who can 
tell us more about it.” 

The waiter confirmed Mrs. Patten’s information, and 
added, that the club which his mistress attended was 


144 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


called the Ballinaquod Ladies* Harmonic Society, in 
which there was a weekly rivalry of singing and piany- 
playing among the emulous fair ones of Ballinaquod. 
His mistress, he added, and her daughter, were consider- 
ed to have distanced all competitors, for if there were 
twenty voices singing together, you would hear Miss Ju- 
liana’s voice above them all ; and her mother played the 
Coolin and its variations so powerful loud, that she 
broke as many strings of the piany as all her rivals put 
together. “ They ’ll have wonderful music to-night,” said 
the waiter, “ for Miss Juliana has been practising night 
and day for a week — it will go hard with her surely, if 
she doesn ’t flog them all.” 

Mrs. Kavanagh rejoiced that the wild, impassioned 
minstrelsy of Ballinaquod was out of ear-shot of t he inn ; 
the strains of Miss Juliana, her mother, and her musical 
friends, would have been a provoking termination to the 
day’s adventures. 

“ What chance have we,” said Mrs. Patten, “ of get- 
ting any thing to eat ?” 

“ Every chance in life, Ma’am.” 

“ What have you got ?” 

“ There ’s a boy just come in with a kish of fresh 
trouts, that were caught this evening in the lake.” 

“ Get us tea,” said Mrs. Kavanagh. 

The waiter proceeded to obey this mandate ; and as 
Mrs. Patten seemed chilly, and in despair of getting a 
fire elsewhere, Mrs. Kavanagh compassionately asked her 
to remain. 

Isabella presided at tea, and poured out a cup for her 
guest, which the latter had no sooner tasted than she put 
it down, exclaiming, “ Oh, I’m fairly poisoned !” 

“ What is the matter ?” asked Mrs. Kavanagh. 

“ Whiskey, whiskey, Ma’am/’ 

“ Whiskey,” repeated the waiter, stepping forward to 
apologise, “ I beg ail the pardons in life, ladies ; but it’s 
only a little taste of whiskey the lady has got in her tay, 
and not the least harm in life. I forgot to ready the 
taypot since the gentlemen drew punch in it last night.” 

Notwithstanding the musical enthusiasm of the land- 
lady and Miss Juliana, the beds, strange to say, were 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


145 

clean and well-aired, and the fatigues of the day were 
soon forgotten in a deep, refreshing slumber. But this 
state of “ sweet oblivion’’ was destined to meet inter- 
ruption. 

When the hour of “ Night’s black noon” arrived, the 
inmates of the inn were alarmed by loud screaming, 
which appeared to proceed from the bed to which Mrs. 
Patten had consigned her person. It proved to be a 
shrieking duet between that lady and the housemaid, 
who had been induced, at Mrs. Patten’s request, to par- 
take of her dormitory, the terrors of which she was afraid 
to encounter alone, having learned, from some commu- 
nicative person, that an officer, who had been drowned 
in the neighboring lake, had recently been waked there. 

Mrs. Patten reposed in tolerable quiet until twelve, 
the legitimate hour for unearthly appearances, when 
some noise in her apartment dispelled her slumbers, and 
revealed to her waking apprehension that a tall form, 
clad in grave-clothes, stood in the window, its head sur- 
mounted by a lofty plume, whose feathers waved in the 
breeze that entered through a broken pane. The horror 
of the apparition was increased by the shadowy indis- 
tinctness of the spectre’s outline ; the light was the faint- 
est beam of a dim and clouded moon, and the vision 
shook its airy plume most awfully. 

“ Rouse ! rouse, Betty !” whispered Mrs. Patten shak- 
ing her bedfellow ; “ as sure as I live there ’s the ghost 
of the drowned officer, in his regimental cap and fea- 
thers. Rouse, woman ! will ye ] I’ll die of the fright.” 

The ghost sailed slowly and majestically over to the 
bed, on which approximation Mrs. Patten’s fears found 
vent in the screams that alarmed Mrs. Kavanagh. Bet- 
ty also yelled, and hid her head beneath the bed-clothes. 
The ghost groaned terrifically : the women yelled loud- 
er than before, and their yells arrested the attention of 
Miss Juliana and her mother, who were just then return- 
ing from their musical soiree . The elder lady, whose 
nerves had been pretty well braced against terror, by a 
roving, adventurous life, walked up to Mrs. Patten’s dor- 
mitory with a candle in her hand, and was met at the 
door by the facetious Mr. Mulligan, with a sheet round 

VOL. i. 13 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


146 

his person, and Mrs. Patten’s plume of feathers on his 
head. “Oh, you marauding tief ! you funny rogue!’ 
said she, “ so it ’s ghosting the poor women you were ? 
But I give you fair notice, Mr. Mulligan, that I shan’t 
permit such doings in my house — it’s all very well for a 
joke, and have done with it — but the next time I ketch 
you at such work, you don’t get off so easy.” 

The ghost being now laid, peace and order were re- 
stored in the household, and the various performers in 
the day’s eventful drama consigned themselves once 
more to sleep, until morning should summon them to 
recommence their travels. 




CHAPTER XVII. 


Towered cities please us then, 

And the busy hum of men. 

L’Allegko. 


On our travelers’ arrival in Dublin, they were driven 
from the hotel where the coach stopped, to Mr. Kava- 
nagh’s residence in Stephen’s Green. As Isabella en- 
tered the hall, she was struck by the cheerless appearance 
of the mansion. Although every part was in perfect re- 
pair, yet the whole wore the gloomy air of a tenement 
which had long been uninhabited : no lights blazed in the 
huge dim lamps that hung from the richly ornamented 
ceilings ; the dusty chairs seemed as if they had not been 
disturbed for a quarter of a century ; and our heroine felt 
really relieved, when, after proceeding through two or 
three spacious drawing-rooms whose faded decorations 
told an impressive tale of splendors long passed by, — she 
reached a small parlor, in which the furniture looked 
new, and carefully kept, and in whose hearth a brisk 
coal fire gaily blazed. 

“We shall soon make the house more comfortable,” 
said Mrs. Kavanagh ; “ and now that we are here, I 
hope we may enjoy the society of three or four of my 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER, 


147 


brother's old friends and their families, who are still to 
be found in the neighborhood. Ah, Isabella, if you had 
seen these apartments as 1 have seen them, — crowded 
with the gay, and the noble, and the wealthy ! I have 
seen the old Duchess of Leinster walk minuets here with 
Lord Arran, and Lord Belvedere, and Warden Flood. 
I have seen old Lady Inchiquin, as stately as a queen, 
looking on at her beautiful daughters dancing cotillions 
with the grace of fawns. I have seen — but what mat- 
ters it all now? We shall never see such coteries of 
rank and splendor any more ; unless indeed Daniel 
O’Connell achieves the repeal of the Union, and by res- 
toring to Ireland the seat of power, restores those who 
flock around it, and whose presence imparts dignity and 
consequence to the land of their birth.” 

Isabella soon retired to rest, and dreamed — ah, wo- 
man’s weakness ! of the faithless Mordaunt. She awoke, 
and her eyes were moistened with tears ; she tried to 
overcome her emotion, and soon relapsed into a troubled 
slumber. 

On the following day, Mrs. Kavanagh was visited by 
some old friends, who had learned her arrival in town. 
Among the rest, was Mrs. Delacour; an old dame, who, 
having herself neither daughters nor nieces, most liberal- 
ly bestowed her services as chaperone and matrimonial 
broker, upon any young lady who would do her the fa- 
vor to accept them. 

“ My dearest Isabella,” exclaimed this amiable lady, 
“ how strange, how unfortunate ! that such attractions as 
your’s, — now pray don’t blush — I don’t at all flatter you 
— I am a plain, blunt old woman, and always speak what 
I think, — but I cannot help saying, it is most unfortunate 
that such a person as you most unquestionably are, 
should have been so very long buried in the country.” 

“ So very long,” repeated Mrs. Kavanagh, laughing ; 
“ why, you would almost make Isabella a despairing an- 
tique.” 

“She should have come to town a year ago — or two 
years. But, my love, you may have it in your power to 
make amends for lost time. Here is your next door 
neighbor, the Marquess of Ardbraccan, who is well known 


148 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


to be on the outlook for a wife — in fact, he has come to 
Dublin for no other purpose.” 

“ Really V ’ said Lady Maria O’Reilly. 

“ Oh, my dear Lady Maria, every body knows it. 
Since Lady Ardbraccan’s death, he has been most anx- 
ious to marry again, in the hope of an heir, for he can- 
not bear the notion of his fortune going to Colonel M‘- 
Carthy. Now, Isabella, now,” pursued the obliging; ma- 
tron, shaking her head most cognoscently ; “ one of the 
oldest titles in the kingdom, Isabella — beauty is his prin- 
cipal object — I will manage introductions, and all that — 
Ah, my young friend, quel parti !” 

“ Bless me !” exclaimed Lady Maria, in astonishment. 

“ Why are you surprised ?” 

“ Lord Ardbraccan might be Isabella’s grandfather, ” 
said Lady Maria. 

“ Oh,” said Mrs. Delacour, “ Isabella is so sensible (I 
really don’t flatter you, my love), that I reckon upon no 
objections. She must see all the advantges, all the eclat, 
of such an establishment ; must you not, my dear ?” [Isa- 
bella bowed assent, much amused at the zeal evinced by 
her officious friend.] “ I only require that Ardbraccan 
should see her to be eperdument amoureux. Upon my 
honor I am serious .’ 5 

Mrs. Kavanagh looked furtively at Isabella, lo discov- 
er what she thought of the project, but she read no symp- 
toms of assent in her daughter’s countenance. The 
brilliancy of the connexion produced a strong effect on 
her maternal fancy ; and she was swayed a little, too, by 
the wish to show the faithless Mordaunt that in deserting 
Isabella he had merely left a place for the entrance of 
a coroneted suitor. “ How it would pique him !” 
thought the mother. And so it would have piqued him, 
probably ; but Isabella was not precisely the sort of a 
woman who would take a step repugnant to her own 
feelings, for the barren pleasure of piquing Mordaunt. 

“ But why are you so certain that Lord Ardbraccan 
would admire Isabella so much ?” inquired Lady Maria, 
good humoredly. 

“Oh,” said Mrs. Delacour, “ her appearance — (upon 
my honor, Isabella, I don’t flatter you at all).” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


149 


“ But that would be lost upon him,” replied Lady Ma- 
ria, “ for his sight is very much impaired — the poor man 
is almost blind.” 

“ Well, you know one could employ twenty friends 
to tell him she was the loveliest creature in existence — 
You laugh, just as if there was any thing absurd or pre- 
posterous in my idea — just as if thousands of men in all 
ages of the world had not fallen desperately in love up- 
on hearsay !” 

“ But I do not think he would fall in love on hearsay.” 

“ Well then, Isabella’s conversation — you converse 
delightfully, Isabella, don’t you ?” 

“ Oh, delightfully of course,” answered Isabella, 
laughing. 

“ Well, we all know that love often wins the ear as 
well as the eye ; and if so, why may not she talk him 
into being in love with her?” 

“ For the best of all possible reasons — the Marquess 
is quite deaf.” 

“Deaf? pooh ! we’ll get him the hearing apparatus, 
the new patent otaphone. Really, if he does not hap- 
pen to possess one already, Isabella might present him 
with one.” 

“ What miserable want of tact you display in that 
suggestion. To present him with an otaphone, would 
be to remind him in the broadest manner of his infirmity — 
better present him with a crutch, or a pair of specta- 
cles.” 

“ Oh, I only spoke in badinage,” 

Lady Maria laughed at Mrs. Delacour’s expectation 
that the Marquess, at the age of seventy, should become 
eperdument amoureux , as she expressed it, with a girl 
whom he could neither see nor hear. 

“But I assure you he is resolved to marry someone,” 
replied Mrs. Delacour ; “and why may not Isabella try 
her chance ?” 

“ This is all sad nonsense,” said Mrs. Kavanagh rising ; 
“'come — I see Lady Maria’s carriage at the door ; let us 
go to the exhibition.” 

This was an exhibition of paintings, to which Lady 
13 * 


150 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


Maria wished to take the Kavanaghs : the collection con- 
tained several works of great excellence. 

When they reached the exhibition rooms, “ We are 
fortunate in coming to-day,” said Mrs. Delacour, “ as 
many connoisseurs are already here.” 

“ Ah, I am sorry for that,” said Lady Maria ; “ those 
persons are always in search of defects, and are neither 
pleased themselves, nor allow others to be so.” 

“ That is a beautiful Danae,” said a lovely girl to a 
gent) man on whose arm she was leaning ; “ what a pity 
it is placed in that dark corner — the shower ofgold is not 
seen to advantage — Don’t you think it might be better 
placed elsewhere 1” 

“ I bow to your authority,” replied the gentleman ; 
“ but I should think that a shower of gold must appear 
to advantage in any light.” 

“Is not the Danae beautiful?” 

“ Unquestionably; but it does not seem an old paint- 


ing. 


“ Nor is it ; the figure is a copy from an old master 

by a very clever Irish artist, and the face ” 

“ What about the face ?” 

“Have you ever seen any one like it I” 

“ Let me see Not that I can remember at this mo- 

ment.” 

“ Lucinda Nugent says that she is the original,” con- 
tinued the young lady, “ and the shower of gold, I un- 
derstand, proceeded from a certain noted hell in St. 
James’s Street. Her Jupiter Tonans is a strange eccen- 


tric being, half gambler, half poet — wears an Apolionic 
shirt collar and black ribbon, a la Byron — can produce, 
you a sonnet at a moment’s notice, upon subjects of any 
dimensions, from Mont Blanc to a lark, and gambles h 
merveille .’* 

“ And pray who is this accomplished personage ?” « 

The young lady lowered her voice, so that Isabella 
could not distinctly hear the name, but she fancied that 
it was Fitzroy Mordaunt. 


“Indeed !” exclaimed the gentleman, much surprised 
at his companion's information. “ Why I thought 
O’Sullivan Lyra was the favored suitor.” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


151 


“ I do not claim inerrancy/’ was the reply ; “ but I 
have learned, from what I deem excellent authority, that 
while poor O’Sullivan is busily occupied in preparations 
for a voyage to New South Wales, or Otaheite, or De- 
merara, in the pious hope of obtaining Lucinda’s hand 
on his return, Fitzroy has contrived to supplant him ; 
which certainly says little for Lucinda’s taste.” 

This time the name was distinctly pronounced, and 
conveyed a mingled pang to Isabella’s bosom. She felt 
deeply for O’Sullivan, in whose happiness she took no 
inconsiderable interest ; and that his peace should be 
wrecked by the worthless brother of the worthless man 
who had inflicted so severe a wound upon her own con- 
fiding heart, was a circumstance which bore its own full 
share of annoyance along with it. 

“ Is it true?” asked the lady, who still lingered list- 
lessly gazing at the Danae, “ is it true, that Lord Ard- 
braccan has been captivated by Mrs. Mersey’s c words 
that weep and tears that speak V ” 

“ No ; he has neither listened to her words, nor dried 
her tears. Indeed, I believe it is some months since they 
met : she is staying at Lord Bally vallin’s, engaged in 
some brisk rivalry with Lady Jacintha. But look — how 
stupidly incautious we have been ! I hope he did not 
hear — he could not have heard — but one should never 
speak above a whisper in a public place ’’ 

“Who? what? what is the matter]” inquired the 
young lady. She turned, and beheld O’Sullivan, who 
was slowly walking through the room, and had approach- 
ed quite close before she was aware. But his pre-occu- 
pied countenance showed that he was totally unconcious 
of having been the subject of conversation, and he pass** 
ed on, gazing in turn on the various paintings. His at- 
tention, however, had been caught by the Danae, and as 
soon as the persons who were looking at it moved away, 
he took their place, and with the close and faithful me- 
mory of a lover, traced in every feature the resemblance 
of Lucinda. 

“ It is fortunate for you,” said Colonel O’Reilly, ap- 
proaching him, “ that this is but a sketch of fancy ; the 
playful expression of those exquisite features has com- 


152 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


pletely enchained you. What a charming idea of beau- 
ty the painter must have had.” 

“ It is not a fancy sketch,” replied O’Sullivan, in a 
low tone, and pressing his friend’s arm ; “ the original is 
infinitely more lovely.” 

O’Sullivan continued in a state of apparent abstrac- 
tion, and Colonel O’Reilly, observing a groupe whose 
eyes were turned towards his friend, concluded that the 
fixed attention of O’Sullivan was the subject of their 
conversation. 

“ Never mind him,” said one of the party, a fat, stout 
man, of extremely aldermanic contour; “ I ’ll engage 
he ’s a deep one ; an old connoisseur ; lie ’s trying to 
poke out some defect in the Danae ; but on the day of 
the sale I promise you I ’ll make Mrs. Freeman bid 
against him. Ah, I should know something of their 
tricks.” 

O’Sullivan joined the Kavanaghs, by whom he was 
warmly greeted. 

“ You looked so sombre, so sepulchral, awhile ago,” 
said Isabella, “ one scarcely would have known you.” 

O’Sullivan did not answer in t lie tone of badinage. 
“I had, indeed, much food for solemn thought,” said he, 
in a low, impressive tone; “ he who leaves his country 
for some years, who quits the scenes of his childhood, 
and the friends who are dearest to his heart, may surely 
be pardoned a few grave emotions when he thinks of the 
changes that may , possibly, occur before his return, — if 
indeed he ever should return.” 

Isabella felt the full tide of friendly sympathy flow in 
upon her heart. “Poor, poor fellow,” thought she, “ I 
hope from the bottom of my soul, his Lucinda may be 
faithful to him.” 

“ Will you dine with us to-day at Stephen’s Green V 9 
asked Mrs. Kavanagh. 

“ I need scarcely say how happy I should be to do so ; 
but I sail to-morrow morning at a very early hour, and 
have a few things to arrange first — indeed I must idle 
here no longer. Farewell, my good friends — remember 
me affectionately to Mr. Kavanagh when you write — 
Farewell.” He shook hands with Mrs. Kavanagh and 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 153 

Isabella, who cordially bade him adieu, with the warmest 
wishes for his welfare. 

“ Who is this portentous foreigner — for foreigner he 
certainly is,” said Lady Maria, as a ponderous man of 
more than hexameter dimensions, and whiskered and 
mustachioed to the eyes, entered the room. Before Mrs. 
Kavanagh could answer, Prince Gruffenhausen, (for it 
was the fatalist himself) accosted her. 

“Meine excellent lady, do I sees you here? ach ! but 
it is de grand surprise, no doubt — but no, no — bah ! 1 
talk foolish tings — it is not a surprise, because noting is not 
a surprise — Dese tings are all written in de book of Das 
Schiksal ! yes indeed. Ten tousand year ago it vas all 
arrange dat I should meet you here dis day, and meine 
friend Miss Isabella.” 

“ Do you stay long in town I” asked Mrs. Kavanagh. 

“ I know not. How can I tell you fot is hid in de 
bosom of die Zukunft* ?” 

“ But have you any purpose of remaining long here ?” 

“Mein friend, I nefer make no purposes. Ach! but 
de human purpose is de bubble on de wave, dat is blown 
into noting at all by de first storm of de Schiksal , de 
vat you call destiny — pofe !” 

“ But if destiny should not prevent ?” 

“ In dat case,” said Prince Gruffenhausen, “ I will go 
back, probable, to mein friend, Lord Bally Tallin. — Ach, 
miladi Jacintha is fine woman — fine woman ! but I ne- 
fer can’t make her understand de deep and mighty dog- 
trine of das Loos.” 

“That is a pity. But I am sure you find Mrs. Mer- 
sey a more tractable and docile pupil.” 

“ O, she haf de great head. Mein heiligkeit ! dat 
widow pierce down to de bottom of die vorher bestim - 
mung\ — she beliefs in it — ach ! strong, very strong. 
She haf de head of tree, four women. Ach ! vortre- 
flahe talent was far eine\! Mein himmel ! dat woman 
could gif legdure on de ponderous dogtrine as well as 
mein own self.” 

“ Ha !” thought Isabella, “ I see that the Mersey has 
thought it worth her while to flatter the Prince.” 

* Die Zukunft — Futurity. | The doctrine of predestination. 

| Oh ! what transcendent talent ! 


154 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ Is Lord Ballyvallin sanguine, ” demanded Mrs. Ka- 
vanagh, “ as to his nephew’s chance of carrying the 
county 1” 

“ Pofe ! I don’t know. I tell him it is all von grand 
folly to give himself concern or troubles — if dese tings 
happen as my lord would like, why dey will, vvheder he 
trouble himself or no ; and if dey won’t, dey won’t.” 

Mrs. Kavanagh found an instant to ask Lady Maria if 
she should introduce the Prince. “ Certainly,” replied 
her ladyship. Mrs. Kavanagh accordingly performed 
the ceremony of introduction as soon as GrufFenhausen 
had finished a lecture he was giving Isabella on the sub-^ 
ject of painting. 

“ Do you admire that Cynthia?” asked Lady Maria. 

“ Pofe ! no. I don’t nefer admire paintings about 
tings dat nefer were at all, or beoples dat nefer lived at 
all. Now dere nefer vas a woman of de name of Cyn- 
thia ; no such person nefer at all. All fudge ! all fancy ! 
all foolishness.” 

“ Then, what may I ask, does your Highness admire?” 

“ Dat chimney-sweeb. Ach ! but dere is nature dere . 
Mein wort, but dat soot is just like de real soot. How 
he shoulder his brush ! how he cock his merry eye ! mein 
himmel, you vould swear he vas going to cry out, ‘ sweeb ! 
sweeb !’ — Now dat is a picture dat I like ; for l haf seen 
two hundred real sweeb ; dere are such beoples as a 
sweeb. But de heathen god and goddess — de fine lady 
dat sit on de top of a cloud vid half her clothes off! 
Mein honest wort, it is all de most foolishest nonsense — 
pofe !” 

“ I should be sorry to adopt your Highness’s standard 
of the merits of a painting,” replied Lady Maria ; “ it 
would exclude from our galleries some of the best works 
of the ablest masters.” 

“Meine most excellent lady,” said GrufFenhausen, “ if 
you were der grand Zauberer himself, you could not con- 
vert me on dis matter — you could not make me like de 
portrait of de ting dat is not, better dan de portrait of de 
ting dat is — ach, no indeed. You could as soon make 
me like de imaginary heathen goddess,” continued the 
fatalist with a profound bow, “ better dan I like your real 
ladysheep.” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


155 


Mrs. Kavanagh was utterly surprised at Gruflenhau- 
sen’s gallantry ; for it was the first occasion on w hich she 
had ever heard him address the language of compliment, 
or indeed of even ordinary politeness, to any individual. 
The fact perhaps was, that the compliment appeared to 
him likely to strengthen his argument, which circumstance 
induced him to make use of it. 

Among the pictures, were two old family portraits be* 

longing to Lord C y. His lordship had recently sold 

his house in town, and these paintings had been purchas- 
ed at the sale of the furniture, by some speculating pic- 
ture-dealer. 

“ What a lovely child !” said Isabella, gazing at the 
beautifully executed portrait of a boy about ten years of 
age, in the foreground of a groupe in one of these pic- 
tures. 

“ Lovely indeed,” said Mrs. Kavanagh ; “ but what 
will you say, Isabella, when I tell you that the original 
died of hard drinking, at the age of twenty-five ?” 

The other portrait was a kitcat, representing a lady in 
the bloom of youth ; her features were prominent, but 
handsome ; an air of great melancholy overspread her 
countenance. 

“That is Lady Henrietta F * # said Lady Ma- 

ria, ** whose name is connected with a strange tradition.” 

“ Oh, do tell it, mein goot lady,” said Prince Gruflfen- 
hausen ; ‘‘I do much likes all dose tradition.” 

“It is short,” replied Lady Maria. “ Lady Henrietta 
F * * * * had retired to bed one night, having waited up 
till a very late hour in the vain expectation of receiving 
a letter from her husband, who had been absent in Flan- 
ders many weeks without writing to her. She was just 
sinking to sleep, when she saw, or thought she saw, a 
long funeral train marching slowly past the foot of her 
bed ; she roused her maid, who was sleeping in an easy 
chair, and the girl declared she saw it too ; mourner af- 
ter mourner followed, and at length the coffin passed ; 
it paused for a moment, and the lid was raised, disclos- 
ing to his horror-struck wife the ghastly form of Colonel 
F * * * #, clad i n the garments of the tomb. The face 
of the corpse glared upon her with a cold, unearthly, yet 


156 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


reproachful glance ; she shrieked, saw no more, and re- 
mained for some hours in a state of stupor. After the 
lapse of some days the post brought tidings that the 
Colonel had been drowned in one of the canals in Flan- 
ders. The apparition of the funeral procession cast a 
gloom on Lady Henrietta’s spirits, so that she never af- 
terwards smiled, to the day of her death*.” 

“ 1 do not marvel dat she did not smile,” said Gruf- 
fenhausen. 

“ What ? and is your Highness a believer in such fan- 
tasies V 9 

“ Pofe ! dey may habben, or habben not, ’tis all a 
chance ; but I do beliefs that de traum — de dream do 
shadow out futurity indeed.” 

“ On what grounds do you think so?” 

“Baf! on de very sure grounds — yes, indeed!” re- 
plied the fatalist, shaking his head. 

* These trivial anecdotes were detailed to the author in connection with the 
subject* of some family portraits shown to him by a friend in an old country 
house. 




CHAPTER XVIII. 

We met — ’twas in a crowd. 

Song. 

“ Won’t you come to me next Thursday ? ah, do ! I 
shall have a charming reunion ; do come.” Such were 
the words of invitation addressed by Mrs. Delacour to 
the Kavanaghs one morning. 

While Mrs. Delacour visited her friends, she had left 
at home a busy coterie of female politicians, of whom 
her hospitable house was a constant rendezvous. Her 
drawing-room, in fact, was full of anxious groupes, knot- 
ted into twos and threes, and eagerly conversing. The 
self-same subject was discussed by all, in all the various 
intonations of anxiety. 

“ The dear, dear Marquess !” said Miss Charlotte I 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


157 


O’Callaghan ; “ he is one of the most interesting old men 
I ever met.” 

“ Nonsense, Charlotte ; how can an old man possibly 
be interesting ?” 

‘•'It is perfectly possible, Emily. His tastes are so ex- 
tremely refined.” 

“ What are his tastes ?” demanded half a dozen voices 
at once. 

“ He is passionately fond of music, in the first place.” 

“Music? that will do forme,” — “and me,” — “and 
me,” — “and me,” thought twenty fair aspirants, as they 
heard this gratifying announcement. 

“ What else does he like ?” 

“ He likes dancing excessively.” 

“Oh, you are jesting — he is surely too old to dance.” 

“I did not say,” returned Charlotte, “that he danced 
himself; but he is an enthusiastic admirer of the grace- 
ful evolutions of the ballet.” 

Instantly one half of Charlotte’s hearers were whirling 
in imaginary pirouettes, a la Celeste. 

“His tastes are exceedingly literary, too,” pursued 
Charlotte ; “ he doats in particular on all the lighter 
works of fancy.” 

Immediately all the blues in the room began to hope. 

“And, above all,” continued Charlotte, “he loves 
conversation ; when I met him first at my uncle’s, 1 
thought him the most talkative person I had ever seen.” 

The girls who had listened with attentive ears to 
Charlotte’s information, returned by degrees to their 
homes, pondering deeply on what they had heard. And 
it would have been diverting to peep into each domestic 
groupe, and to witness the pertubation of which the 
poor Marquess’s reputed intentions were the innocent 
cause. 

“ Sophia,” said a venerable matron to her daughter, 
“ did Charlotte O’Callaghan say that Lord Ardbraccan 
was fond of riding ?” 

“Yes, Mamma; she said that, notwithstanding his 
age, he still rides out every day that the weather per- 
mits.” 

“ Well, my love, we must get Charles’s grey mare at 

tol. i. 14 


158 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


once ; she is a nice lady’s mare ; extremely safe and 
gentle. Mrs. Delacour can easily manage, no doubt, to 
manoeuvre constant riding parties with his lordship — I 
will write to Charles to send the mare to-night ; and do 
you, dearest, get a few lessons immediately from Bour- 
quenot — the graceful carriage is a most important thing, 
and I don’t think you sit a horse so well as you might, 
with a little more instruction.” 

“ Praf, Amelia,” said another considerate mother, 
“ Which did Miss O’Callaghan say that Lord Ardbrac- 
can preferred, vocal or instrumental music ?” 

“I do not know, Mamma; indeed, I did not ask.” 

“ My love, you were unpardonably negligent and stu- 
pid. But unquestionably you excel in vocal ; go — go 
practise this instant for three hours — you sing ‘ Giorno 
felice,’ — ‘ Crudo Amor,' and ‘Felice pastorelli,’ most su- 
perbly ; but I think you are not sufficiently expressive in 
the grand cadenza ; you know how very much depends 
upon effect. Go — go practice expression for three hours 
— Baron Rudolf said that such a voice as your’s, if prop- 
erly managed, should thrill through all one’s nerves — 
there’s a good girl — go and practise.’’ 

“ It is extremely provoking,” said Miss Arabella Mor- 
timer, an inveterate blue, to her sister blue, Miss Aleuri- 
da McDonnell, “that one doesn’t know the precise style 
of literature to which Ardbraccan has chiefly devoted 
himself ; one could study for the evening’s exhibition, 
and shine so brilliantly.” 

“I think,” replied Aleurida, “that, as far as I am con- 
cerned, the information were of very little consequence. 
I shine alike on every subject, and do not require a sin- 


gle moment’s notice.” 


Had all the preparatory efforts, unconsciously called 
forth by Lord Ardbraccan, been concentrated into one 
scene, what a charming Babel of confusion would have 
been exhibited ! Harps twanging, guitars tinkling, voices 
screaming, — blues reciting, danseuses gaily bounding, 
floating, springing, pirouetting on their “ many twinkling 
toes and the fair equestrian bringing up the rear with 
a dignified canter on her brother Charles’s grey mare. 
Poor, poor, Lord Ardbraccan ! of what infraction of his 
majesty’s peace was he not guilty ! 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


159 


In about a week the reunion took place, to which 
Mrs. Delacour had asked the Kavanagh’s, and Isabella 
was perhaps almost the only girl present who did not 
harbor malice prepense against the Marquess’s heart. 
Mrs. Delacour had, with the most consummate impar- 
tiality, led every aspirant for the honor of sharing his 
lordship’s coronet, to imagine that she had been the sole, 
and particular, and exclusive object of her matronly 
solicitude. 

At eight o’clock Lord Adbraccan entered the saloon, 
leaning on the arm of a military looking man. He paid 
his compliments to Mrs. Delacour, and quickly took a seat 
with the air of a person delighted to be relieved from the 
fatigue of walking. His hair was perfectly white, and 
fell straight on each side of his forehead ; it was tied 
behind in a queue; to which antiquated mode he perti- 
naciously adhered. Many introductions took place ; 
and several of the fair expectants began to fear, as they 
looked at his dim and failing eyes, that the elaborate 
pains they had taken to arrest his admiration would be 
wholly thrown away. 

The earliest and boldest effort to attract his lordship, 
was made by Miss Arabella Mortimer. She talked much, 
and dictatorially, on various literary subjects, constantly 
appealing to Lord Ardbraccan’s opinion in confirmation 
of her own, while he answered in monosyllables, but 
with infinite suavity, and nearly at random ; for he did 
not very distinctly hear, nor, if he had heard, would he 
probably have clearly understood, the capricious and 
original views which Miss Mortimer delighted to put 
forward. 

His defect of hearing, although soon perceived, no- 
thing daunted this lady. She cared little whether his 
replies were affirmative, or negative ; she wanted to en- 
gross his conversation quelqu'il soit , and she proceeded 
with indomitable perseverance in the execution of her 
purpose. 

“ Do you like German literature, my Lord ?” 

“ Yes, excessively.” — Lord Ardbraccan did not un- 
derstand one word of German ; he had only heard the 
word literature , in Arabella’s query. 


160 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


u Is not Schiller the monarch of dramatic writers V* 

Lord Ardbraccan smiled, bowed slightly, and looked 
rather affirmatively. 

“ Oh, I knew you would think so. He enchants me. 
There is a depth, — a greatness, — an unparalleled majes- 
ty of thought about him, which all conspire to place him 
on an undisputed and unapproachable pedestal of dra- 
matic excellence. He is the chief — the paragon — the 
facillimb princeps. O, I could rave for hours about 
him ! But there is another German author, with whose 
works you are doubtless familiar — my own enchanting 
Winderspohl — don’t you doat on Winderspohl ?” 

“ I don’t perfectly hear,” said Lord Ardbraccan, po- 
litely inclining his head towards Arabella, in an attitude 
of the most profound attention. 

“ Winderspohl — Winderspohl,” repeated the literary 
lady, raising her voice, “ is he not charming?” 

Lord Ardbraccan bowed again, smiled, and gently 
waved his hand. 

“ Oh, I was certain you would think so. Last year I 
made a literary tour through Germany with Conrade 
Adolphus Hehrenhiitter — a delightful fellow-tourist — 
knows everybody, every thing — improvises half the day 
enchantingly — I wonder Conrade does not write — I told 
him a thousand times he ought to write — his mind is 
instinct and alive with genius ! But Winderspohl — we 
went to see him in his cottage ; and O ! my Lord, he 
more than realised the utmost notions I had ever form- 
ed of the beau ideal of a person of poetical talent. You 
are unquestionably well acquainted with the peculiar 
style of Winderspohl’s genius ? Yes. — Well, you never 
saw genius more prominently charactered and stamped 
upon the face and form of its possessor — his whole ap- 
pearance is a living, speaking, thrilling, startling index, 
not only of his talent, but of the peculiar character of 
talent for which this distinguished man is so remarkable. 
He has not, it is undeniably true, the majesty of Goethe 
and Schiller ; but I boldly maintain that he excels them 
both in the wild, the unparalleled, the wondrous, the un- 
precedented. Goethe and Schiller are masterly paint- 
ers of possible scenes ; but Winderspohl’s imagination is 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


16 i 


transcendent in the wonderful impossible . Don’t you 
think so ?” 

Lord Ardbraccan’s could only bow, and smile again. 

“Now, I say,” resumed the merciless blue, 44 that I 
never was so charmed, so startled, as at Winderspohl’s 
appearance. 4 I shall bring you,’ said Conrade Hehren- 
hutter, 4 to see the lion in his den.’ As we entered, the 
poet was in one of his very finest ecstacies, pacing 
through the room like a demoniac, and dictating to his 
amanuensis. What a man! what a marvelous imper- 
sonation of the wild horrible ! His haggard limbs were 
like the branches of a blasted elm — his brow, a dreary 
hill of snow — his nose, the twisted bough of some huge 
oak — his mouth, the entrance to some dismal cave — he 
improvised,— he stamped on the floor, and was dressed 
in bear-skins. Surely such a picture never yet was 
sketched upon the canvass of mortality. Had ten thou- 
sand poets been present, I could, at the first glance, have 
singled out among them all, the author of the 44 Doomed 
damned,” and 44 the Wizzard’s Ship.” There was no 
mistaking Winderspohl.” 

Lord Ardbraccan began to look like a man who was 
talked to death ; and some charitable person, to effect a 
diversion, directed his notice to a remarkably beautiful 
chess-table. He happened to say that he played* chess. 

44 Chess!” cried Arabella, “ my favorite game !” and, 
without a moment’s delay, or hesitation, she drew over 
the chess-table, placed it between herself and Lord Ard- 
braccan, and proceeded to arrange the chess-men. 

The singers and figurantes internally murmured with 
great bitterness at Arabella’s daring and hitherto suc- 
cessful monopoly of the Marquess. 

44 Do you play chess'!” said Mrs. Delacour to Isabel- 
la.” 

44 No; but I should greatly like to learn.” 

44 You may learn, as I have done, by looking on.” 
And she placed Isabella on a chair in the immediate vici- 
nity of the players. 

The little ivory armies were red and brown ; and 
Lord Ardbraccan’s visual imperfection repeatedly led 
him to mistake his forces for those of his antagonist ; 

14 * 


162 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


and he played with innocent unscrupulosity, with Ara- 
bella’s soldiers ; of which blunders his fair foe did not 
feel the slightest wish to apprize him. It may be readily 
supposed that his Lordship could not take any very deep 
interest in the progress of a game of which he could not 
see the men, but Miss Mortimer cared not ; as long as 
the game lasted, so long was her object accomplished of 
keeping Lord Ardbraccan to herself. 

The light from the lamp beamed full on Isabella where 
she sate, and Lord Ardbraccan, occasionally looking 
from his game, conceived that he imperfectly descried in 
our heroine’s appearance, something better worth his no- 
tice than aught the soiree had hitherto afforded. He 
looked again, and assisted his inspection with his glass, 
addressing at the same time some observations to Isabel- 
la, with a high-bred courtesy, which deprived his fixed 
gaze of all the appearance of a stare . At length, by 
some unaccountable accident, his Lordship was check- 
mated. Arabella did not mean to mention this, but would 
have still played on, intent upon her favorite purpose. 
The fate of the game, however, was immediately an- 
nounced by another observer, who took care that her ac- 
cents should reach his Lordship’s sense of hearing, be it 
ever so obtuse. 

“ Checkmated ] am I ?” said Lord Ardbraccan, glad- 
ly retreating from the chess-table, and bestowing or ap- 
pearing to bestow, a careful glance upon the board. 
“ Yes, really : and a very just punishment for my pre- 
sumption in attempting to enter the lists with my very 
accomplished antagonist.” 

Lord Ardbraccan now turned to Isabella, whose sim- 
ple, dignified, and unobtrusive manner pleased him, and 
was not the less obvious to his practised observation* 
that many of her remarks were lost on him because of 
his deafness. ^ 

Music was introduced, and the anxieties that had pre- 
viously disturbed the fair vocalists, were much subdued, 
from Lord Ardbraccan’s manifest incapacity to hear, ad- 
mire, or criticise. 

But there was one strain sung by Isabella, sweet, sooth- 
ing, and melodious, of which a few notes were heard by 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 163 

him ; it was an old, and now almost forgotten song, com- 
posed by Shield for Mrs. Billington : — 

v Zephyr, come ! thou gentle minion.” 

And faithful memory filling up the blanks which were* 
left by the imperfect sense of hearing, enabled Lord Ard- 
braccan to beat time with his hand to the music, as cor- 
rectly as if he heard every note of it. 

“ He is not so deaf as he pretends to be,” remarked 
aonie of the company ; “ and do observe — it is really ab- 
surd ! how that girl appears to have fascinated him ! he 
can converse with her , although he is too deaf to hear 
anybody else ! He is able to enjoy her singing, although 
he cannot distinguish a note sung by any one else ! He 
can see her , although he is quite too blind to see a single 
being else ! Is this magic, or what is it ?” 

Meanwhile, the poor old Marquess, unconscious of 
these busy commentaries, was mentally pursuing the train 
of thought, to which the half-heard notes of the old song 
recalled his memory. He had heard it sung in Crow 
Street during Daly’s gay though improvident manage- 
ment : he had heard it sung in the year eighty-eight, by 
the ail-enchanting Billington herself, at a period when 
he was entering on a long and brilliant course, — 

u When life and love alike were young.” 

It had then been a favorite with her who was dearest tO' 
his heart — whom he subsequently married, and with 
whom he had enjoyed a long term of connubial happi- 
ness, clouded only by the want of offspring ; a never- 
failing source of regret to the noble and the wealthy. 

Poor old man ! the fellow-being were heartless, who 
could refuse his sympathy to the rich, deep, melancholy 
feelings — to the long-buried memories of other years, 
that were now aroused to life by the faintly-heard strains 
of Isabella’s song. He strained his ear : he exerted all 
his powers of attention ; and the interest he began to 
take in Isabella, was at least not diminished, by his fan- 
cying that her style and tone resembled those of the first 
and fondest object of his love. 

Miss Mortimer, who was forced to feel herself de trap 


164 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


in the little circle that had gathered round the Marquess, 
thought that as her efforts to fascinate had failed, her 
next best plan was to commence a brisk German con- 
versation with Prince Gruffenhausen, who now made his 
appearance. 

Proudly, proudly, did she enjoy the astonishment ex- 
cited by the vast volubility with which she uttered the 
Teutonic gutturals ; a volubility that extorted some- 
thing like a note of admiration from the inflexible Fatal- 
ist himself. She was also quite at home on his favorite 
subject of “ Das Schiksal ,” having stored her memory 
with many of the lucubrations of Kofer, and Dunder- 
stein, and Shirtsinger ; and she acquitted herself so much 
to the satisfaction of the Serene Man, and evinced such 
a happy conformity of sentiment, that when dancing 
commenced, 

“ Pofe !” said he, “ der dancing is a foolishness, but 
womens likes it — I don’t gare, by mein honest wort, if I 
dance vid you for d is once — pofe 1” 

So he led forth Arabella, who would certainly have 
withheld her consent, had she but foreseen the ordeal 
that awaited her. His highness was equipped, as usual, 
h la militaire ; and having a thorough contempt and 
indifference for the poetry of motion, he whisked his un- 
lucky partner, whom he firmly held in the grasp of a 
giant, into every fantastic involution that he happened to 
make; while his sword, spurs, and trappings, came in 
rude and perpetual contact with her heels and person, as 
he swung and whirled her about. Not the least amus- 
ing part of this display, was the stolid unconsciousness 
of doing anything outre or remarkable, that appeared 
in the stern, unmoved expression of his highness’s eye, 
and of his hairy face. 

c< Oh ! how fatigued I am !” exclaimed Miss Morti- 
mer, sinking down upon a sofa, when her tiresome dance 
had ended. 

“ If der dance tires you,” asked Gruffenhausen, “ why 
did you dance ?” 

“ I did not think I should be so much tired.” 

“Meine goot friend, dis fatigue vas allotted for you in 
der book of Schiksal, long before you saw de light.” 


THE HUSBAVD-HUNTER. 


165 


“I am perfectly convinced of it, your highness.” 

“ Well, and does not dat regoncile you to your des- 
tiny V ’ 

“ I must try to make it do so.” 

“ I tell you vat I do tink,” said Gruffenhausen, lower- 
ing his voice — “ I do tink milord Ardbraccan is allotted 
to fall down, down, down, deep in love vid Miss Isabella 
Kavanagh — Baf ! it is all one great foolishness — pofe !” 

“ I hope,” said Miss Mortimer, “ his Lordship’s Schik- 
sal* may prove a more fortunate one than you seem to 
apprehend.” 

“ Pofe ! you do say dat out of spite. You vould be 
jealous if dat pretty young frauenzimmer became a mar- 
chioness. You hope milord may have a better schiksal ? 
Ach ! what a very great deal you do care about milord 
Ardbraccan or his schiksal — pofe !” 

Miss Mortimer was, for once, completely silenced. 
The rough, downright bluntness of Prince Gruffenhausen 
went straight to the despicable jealousy that prompted 
her remark, and did not leave her the shadow of a pre- 
text for any evasive explanation. She therefore wisely 
held her tongue. 

“ Ach ! ach !” exclaimed his highness, triumphing in 
his discernment, “ did not I find you out, meine friend ? 
Mein wort ! I do know womens ! I do know dem well 
— mein heiligkeit 1 You all do hate each oder — pofe !” 

“ l T our highness may be caught yet, notwithstanding 
the unfavorable opinion of our sex, that you express with 
so little reserve.” 

“ Mein wort, I have been caught already ; and dat , 
may be, is one of de reason why I do know your sex so 
well.” 

“ But, allow me to ask, does your highness think 
Lord Ardbraccan would act wisely in marrying Miss 
Kavanagh ?” 

“ Meine excellent lady, I do not know dat I tink any 
man acts wise in marrying any womens at all. But why 
do you ask me dat ?” 

“ Because — because — in fact every body knows Lord 
Ardbraccan means to marry again.” 

* Destiny, 


166 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ I do not tink Miss Isabella Kavanagh vould efer 
marry dat old Marquess. She haf not got no mind to 
marry for dis long while now, after de very ugly way dat 
Mister Mordaunt treat her.” 

“Ah! pray tell me,” said Arabella. Prince Gruffen- 
hausen, in reply, detailed the whole story of Mardaunt’s 
desertion, to which Arabella listened with eager, inquis- 
itive, attention ; and thus was rendered in a very great 
measure abortive the purpose that had influenced the 
Kavunaghs to come to the metropolis. 

Miss Mortimer protested that she felt immensely shock- 
ed ! her pity for Isabella was unbounded ! she could not 
rest until she had secured the sympathy of Mrs. Dela- 
cour in her indignant feelings. Mrs. Delacour was en- 
raged at the perfidious Mordaunt, and, if possible, still 
more enraged at Mrs. Kavanagh for not having told her 
the story of his perfidy. This accumulated fund of 
sympathetic indignation was forthwith conveyed to La- 
dy Maria O’Reilly, who, to do her ladyship full justice, 
felt and spoke on the occasion with far more sincerity 
and friendship than either the literary Arabella or the 
gossipping Mrs. Delacour. She felt really and unaffec- 
tedly sorry that her young friend should have sustained 
annoyance, and angry with the man who had inflicted it. 
And she expressed peculiar indignation at the tattling 
so-called friends, who under the hollow mask of sympa- 
thy, were capable of increasing Isabella’s pain by mak- 
ing the event a subject of idle conversation. 

“ Oh ! my dear Lady Maria,” exclaimed Mrs. Dela- 
cour, “ how can you suppose that 1 would speak on such 
a subject to any one except the most particular friends?” 

“ Pray,” said Lady Maria, “ to how many most par- 
ticular friends do you mean to mention the circum- 
stance ?” 

“ I am really almost angry,’’ said Arabella, throwing 
her person into one of Winderspohl’s best attitudes, 
“ that your ladyship should for an instant deem a hint, 
as to silence, requisite, where 1 am concerned.” 

Lady Maria said nothing : she knew how to interpret 
the prudence of Mrs. Delacour, and the silence of Miss 
Mortimer. Indeed, the latter lady soon afforded a con- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


167 


elusive commentary on her promise to be silent, by re- 
marking that there was something inexpressibly roman- 
tic and interesting in the whole affair, and that it would 
make a most inimitable subject for a poem by Conrade 
Adolphus Hehrenhiitter. “ He shall certainly write up- 
on it,’’ said she, “ I am resolved on that ; we continually 
correspond, and I cannot be persuaded but that poor 
Miss Kavanagh’s wounded heart would experience the 
balm of consolation in the consciousness that her sor- 
rows found sympathy among the woody shores of the 
bold Rhine — that her tale of woe and injury was borne 
in Teutonic echoes o’er its mighty waters, where it curves 
towards Mentz i (an enchanting scene, by the way).” 

“ Is it thus you are resolved to be silent ?” said Lady 
Maria. 

“ Silent ? I never promised not to tell Conrade Heh- 
renhiitter ? and pray how will the Dublin world be the 
wiser for the strains of my dear distant German poet? 
He may sing the woes of Miss Kavanagh to all eter- 
nity, before his strains increase the publicity of her ad- 
ventures here." 

Lady Maria was incensed beyond measure ; but she 
saw that the case was quite hopeless. 

“ Fot is all dis V’ said Prince Gruffenhausen, walking 
up to the groupe. 

“ Oh, nothing, but that Lady Maria and Mrs. Dela- 
cour unite in our feelings respecting that sad affair of 
Mr. Mordaunt, that you told me a while ago.” 

“ Do dese lady unites in your feeling ? Ach ! den if 
dey do, I suppose dey are fery glad — pofe !” 

Lady Maria could not avoid laughing at the blunt 
mode in which the Fatalist hit off the truth ; but she did 
not attempt to exculpate herself. 

Meanwhile, Lord Ardbraccan was trying to pay all the 
attention he could to Isabella; and in spile of his deaf- 
ness and blindness he succeeded tolerably well : if he 
could not hear nor see, he at least could talk ; and he 
told various anecdotes of the olden time, which he con- 
trived to render interesting enough^ He requested, and 
obtained permission, to wait on Mrs. Kavanagh; a cir- 
cumstance which excited the more comment among 


168 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


many rival belles, since Miss Kavanagh evidently had 
not made a single effort to attract his observation. Some 
accounted for it on Prince Gruffenhausen's principle of 
fatalism ; others, with more probability, remarked that 
his lordship possibly desired to renew an old friendship 
with the Kavanaghs, that had long been suspended. 
u For are you not aware,” said a lady, “ that the fami- 
lies were formerly the closest political friends ? When 
the present Mr. Kavanagh was a young man, he was 
put into the Irish Parliament for the borough of Ardbrac- 
can, by the Marquess’s father.” 

This solution was accepted as quite satisfactory, by 
some ; although others, who deemed their own attrac- 
tions infinitely greater than our heroine’s, maliciously re- 
marked that it could not be wondered at that Miss Ka- 
vanagh engrossed so large a portion of Lord Ardbrac- 
can’s conversation, as the poor man was nearly deaf, 
and nearly blind, and was therefore quite unable to dis- 
criminate. 

The party broke up at a late hour. 


CHAPTER XIX. 


Give him a little of the law, says I — What, man, d’ye hesitate ? I’ll find you 
an attorney who will make the scoundrel smart for his rascality. Eh ? doubtful 
still? pri’thee wherefore? the case is a clear case, a strong case, a good case, as 
was ever handed up to twelve jolter-pated blockheads on their oath3. At him, 
mail — at him. 

Stephen Rackett’s Adventures. 

Nothing could exceed the chagrin of the Kavanaghs, 
on finding that Isabella’s matrimonial disappointment 
was betrayed to their amiable friends by Prince Gruffen- 
hausen. 

“ It is very distressing,” said Mrs. Kavanagh. 

“ Very distressing indeed,” said Lady Maria O’Reilly, 
lo whom the remark was addressed ; u and now that it 
has acquired all the notoriety that we could have wished 
to prevent — now that everyone knows it that one would 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


169 


at all desire not lo know it, I declare I do think that 
Isabella ought to seek amends, as any additional notori- 
ety of legal proceedings is now a matter of no conse- 
quence.” 

“ How do you mean ?” asked Mrs. Kavanagh, rather 
amazed. 

“ Sue Mr. Mordaunt for breach of promise of mar- 
riage, ’’ said Lady Maria, “ and recover heavy damages. 
We should teach these fickle gentlemen to know their 
own minds better, and to take more care how they vio- 
late solemn engagements so lightly.” 

“ I doubt if Isabella would consent,” said Mrs. Kava- 
nagh. 

“ Oh, I will engage to obtain her consent. I think I 
know her disposition. She would for ever have borne 
her sorrows in silence, rather than the rude breeze of 
popular remark should have breathed upon their sacred 
privacy. But now that this privacy is outraged, the case 
is quite altered ; and l am sure she will agree with me 
in thinking, that, as motives of selfish pecuniary interest 
induced Mr. Mordaunt first to offer his hand and then to 
withdraw it, strict justice demands that he ought to be 
punished through the medium of his selfish feelings. Is- 
abella, I suppose, has ample proofs 

“ O, proofs without end. But even if she should con- 
sent, you must know, my dear Lady Maria, that I am 
not in funds for a law-suit ; the law is an expensive af- 
fair, and the issue of the suit is problematical.” 

“ Let not that consideration make you uneasy. I 
pledge myself, my old and valued friend, to supply you 
with all necessary funds for this purpose, unless Mr. Ka- 
vanagh thinks proper to advance them himself. Nay, 
make no objections — you positively must not — you shall 
pay me from the damages, which may quiet your con- 
science upon this point.” 

Lady Maria gained her purpose, so far as Mrs. Ka- 
vanagh’s consent was in question ; subject, however, to 
Mr. Kavanagh’s approval. This was the cause of some 
delay, as she was not aware of her brother-in-law’s Pa- 
risian address : a letter from him soon arrived, which re- 
moved this difficulty ; and in the course of a few weeks 

VOL. i. 15 


170 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


more his consent was obtained, with a draft on his bank- 
er for whatever sum might be requisite to cover the ini- 
tiatory legal expenses. Isabella objected at first to the 
scheme, but her opposition was soon overruled by her 
mother’s authority and Lady Maria’s persuasion. 

Lord Ardbraccan had become a most assiduous visi- 
tor; the proximity of his residence to Mrs. Kavanagh’s, 
enabled him to brave every variation of weather ; and 
the prudent mother, whose vanity was marvellously 
tickled with the prospect of a coronet, gave orders to 
her servants that his Lordship should be always admitted. 
Day after day, and always at the same hour, did the old 
man make his appearance ; and as regularly did he lead 
Isabella to the pianoforte to play and sing for him, “ Ze- 
phyr, come, thou gentle minion together with many 
other airs of antiquated date, which now are only to be 
found in the faded collections of our mothers and grand- 
mothers. Then he would apply some hearing apparatus 
to his ear, and continue smiling, gazing, and sighing in 
the presence of the songstress until the usual hour for 
his departure arrived, when, regular as clockwork, he 
would make his adieu. 

At length the expected declaration came; he begged 
to be permitted to offer his hand ; he declared that the 
happiness or misery of his future existence depended on 
the answer Isabella should make so his addresses. 

“ Don't refuse him, Isabella,” said Mrs. Kavanagh, 
quite loud enough for any one except the Marquess to 
have heard ; “ don’t, my love — your mother intreats 
you.” — But Isabella, in all other matters dutiful, was 
determined to decide for herself upon this. 

“My Lord, no one can possibly be more sensible of 
the honor you do me, but I regret to be obliged to say 
that it is quite impossible.” 

It was a considerable addition to our heroine’s annoy- 
ance, that her noble suitor, in his agitation, had dropped 
his otaphone, and was quite too much perplexed and 
embarrassed to resume it ; so that whatever slight ad- 
vantage his hearing might derive from its use, was quite 
lost on the present occasion. 

“ 1 don ’ t perfectly hearf said he, bending forward 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


171 


with ineffable suavity ; “ will you, Miss Kavanagh, have 
the goodness to repeat — but oh ! do not repeat, I should 
rather say, if your answer be unfavorable to my hopes.” 
And he still bent forward, with his right ear turned up- 
wards, and his hand placed behind it, as if to collect the 
sounds. 

“ My Lord,” repeated Isabella, “ I am infinitely pain- 
ed, I assure you — I was expressing my high sense of the 
honor you had destined for me, and which I felt reluc- 
tantly compelled to decline.” And she raised her voice 
as she pronounced the word “ decline.” But it would 
not do. Lord Ardbraccan, reading her countenance, 
fancied he beheld consent, and utterly deaf to her ac- 
cents, believed that his wishes were accomplished. 

“ Thank you ! thank you ! dearest Isabella !” he ex- 
claimed ; “ this is the most delightful moment of my 
existence ! But my future life, my dearest Miss Kava- 
nagh, will, I trust, testify my gratitude.” 

Isabella was excessively distressed ; her countenance 
expressed the pain she felt. “ For pity’s sake,” said 
Mrs. Kavanagh, “ don’t undeceive the poor old man — 
you see how enchanted he is — you would kill him, you 
would really kill him ! how could he bear such a serious 
disappointment at his years, and with his infirmities ? 
Isabella ! if ever you expect mercy yourself, pray show 
it now to Lord Ardbraccan ! don’t, I entreat you, blast 
his hopes, his certainty ! don’t ! it is your mother who 
implores.” 

Isabella, seeing all other means useless, stooped to 
pick up the otaphone which had fallen on the floor. Her 
mother made another effort. “ Child, what are you 
about] recollect that this man’s age and infirmities are 
such that you cannot in the course of nature be troubled 
with him long — -two years, or three at the utmost, and 
then — a marchioness, a splendid jointure.” 

“ Mother,” replied Isabella gravely, “ it ill becomes 
me to reproach a parent ; but if ever I marry, which does 
not at present appear very probable, trust me I shall not 
do so on the speculation of my husband’s speedy death.” 

Thus saying, she presented the Marquess with the ota- 
phone ; he took it (looking rather sheepish as he did 


172 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


so;) and then in language that at length did reach him, 
she conveyed her positive rejection of his suit, at the 
same time, tempering her words with such sweetness 
as to give as little pain as possible to Lord Ardbraccan. 

“ It is certainly a dreadful task,” she soliloquized, when 
his Lordship comprehended her purpose ; “ it is certain- 
ly a dreadful task to have to roar and shout into a man’s 
ear that you do not wish to marry him.’’ 

“ May God bless you, Miss Kavanagh,” said the poor 
rejected suitor very mildly ; “ although you have refused 
my hand, I shall never cease to esteem and admire you. 
You will not, I am sure, have any objection to allow me 
to visit you every day as usual, and to sing for me, ‘ Ze- 
phyr, come, thou gentle minion/ and the other sweet 
songs that recall the happy days of my youth 1” 

“ Certainly not, my Lord,” replied Isabella, perceiving 
the’otaphone properly fixed ; “ provided that we do not 
renew the subject of to-day.” 

“Agreed, agreed,” — responded Lord Ardbraccan; 
“ and now that my ordinary hour has arrived, I must bid 
you farewell for the present. You have inflicted pain, 
Miss Kavanagh, but as little as you could have possibly 
given under the circumstances.” 

He took his departure with the air of placid courtesy 
for which he was distinguished. “ You see, mother,” 
said Isabella, “that I did not kill him.” 

“Child, you don’t know what may happen. He did 
not, it is true, fall down lifeless on the floor, but your 
heartless refusal may probably shorten his days.” 

“You only allowed him two or three years to live, a 
while ago,” rejoined Isabella ; “ so that if he does not 
die before that period, you cannot attribute his demise 
to me” 

Mrs. Kavanagh was too fond of Isabella not to be ea- 
sily pacified ; so after a little more reproof, she kissed 
her daughter and made friends. 

A servant now entered with a very official looking 
letter, which he said had been left at the door by a man 
who resembled an attorney’s clerk. “ Isabella,” ex- 
claimed Mrs. Kavanagh, in astonishment, “ this letter is 
for you” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


173 


Miss Kavanagh opened it. Its contents were as fol- 
lows : 

“ Madam, 

“ I could ardently wish that the unpleasant 
duty I now have to perform, had devolved on some one 
else ; but the attachment I have always felt for my ex- 
cellent friend, Mr. Jonathan Lucas, compels me, al- 
though with feelings of the greatest reluctance and re- 
gret, to act as his attorney in the present disagreeable 
business. 

“ It has invariably been a source of very particular 
pain to me, when, in the course of my professional du- 
ties, I have sometimes been compelled to proceed against 
ladies : judge, therefore, how deeply my delicacy must 
be wounded on the present occasion, when, in perform- 
ance of my duty to my much esteemed friend, Mr. Jona- 
than Lucas, I am necessitated to proceed at his suit in 
an action against a lady for whom I entertain so high 
and unaffected a respect as for yourself. 

“ I have his instructions to proceed against you to re- 
cover damages for the breach of a promise of marriage 
which he avers to have been made by you to him. 

“ Permit me to hope that the matter may be amicably 
arranged, so as to supersede the necessity of litigation. 
It would give me inexpressible satisfaction to be made 
the channel of any such desirable arrangement. Ex- 
pecting a reply at your earliest convenience, 

“ I have the honor to be, 

“ With profound respect, 

“ Madam, 

t: Your most obedient, humble Servant, 

“ Peter M‘Gavjn, 

“ Attorney for plaintiff, 217, 

“ Capel Street, Dublin. 

“ To Miss Isabella Kavanagh, 

li Stephens Green.’’ 

“ Madness !” exclaimed Mrs. Kavanagh ; “ some stu- 
pid hoax.’’ 

But Isabella did not look as if she thought it any hoax. 
15 * 


174 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ Why, child — what is the matter ? did Jonathan ever 
propose for yon ? he could not have had the presump- 
tion. 

“ He did.” 

“He did? did he? Then why, why, in the name of 
astonishment, did you never mention this to me, or to 
your uncle ?” 

“ Because I really thought my uncle would have been 
so angry; that he might have been betrayed into expres- 
sions offensive to old Lucas.” 

“ A very insufficient reason for your silence, Isabella. 
But — but surely you never gave this insolent fellow the 
smallest encouragement V 9 

“ I ? — Not the least ; I was always as explicit as pos- 
sible in rejecting his addresses. I cannot imagine what 
shadow of a pretext he can have for this action.” 

When Lady Maria O’Reilly was informed of this new 
source of uneasines to our heroine, she could not avoid 
smiling at the strange dilemma in which she was placed, 
although she felt sincerely for her pain. 

“ Never was our heroine entangled,” said she, “ in a 
more complicated web of perplexities; here you are at 
the same time defendant in one action for breach of pro- 
mise of marriage, and plaintiff in another ; and all the 
while almost vainly trying to convince an old deaf mar- 
quess that you do not want to marry him. Poor Isa- 
bella ” 




CHAPTER XX. 


He woo\i, he raw’d, he raved, he swoie — 

He cried, ‘ How can you look so killing V 

Old Ballad. 


We will leave Isabella, for awhile, to extricate herself 
as she best can, from the knot of difficulties that seemed 
so perplexing ; and transport our readers to Martagon, 
where the fair Lucinda, before Henry O’Sullivan’s de- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


175 


parture, had exchanged with him vows of the deepest 
tenderness and most inviolable constancy. 

Fitzroy Mordaunt, it will no doubt be recollected, was 
staying at Martagon at the period of O’Sullivan’s depart- 
ure. Fitzroy had just the sort of talent that enables a 
man to shine at a tea-table. He affected, too, to soar 
above his own peculiar class of intellect, and to look 
down with supreme contempt on the writers of peotry 
in albums, the fetchers and carriers of charades and all 
such quiddits, the perpetrators of sentimental sonnets, 
and expounders of enigmas. Yet these were precisely 
the things that Fitzroy could do well : and anything else 
he was quite unable to accomplish, unless perhaps to play 
on the Spanish guitar, which he accompanied, not un- 
pleasingly, with a voice that much practice had rendered 
very tolerable. 

Although we deeply regret that the behests of stern 
truth compel us, as veracious chroniclers, to record events 
that may lower the beautiful Lucinda in the reader’s es- 
timation ; yet we must proclaim the melancholy fact, that 
the wind that wafted O’Sullivan on southern seas, was 
not more changeful than the fickle fair. In plain lan- 
guage, she began to discover that one present lover was 
worth a dozen absent ones. Fitzroy began to fill, by de- 
grees, the blank that O’Sullivan’s departure had at first 
occasioned in her heart ; his debut at Martagon had been 
made in the interesting character of a martyr of humani- 
ty ; his arm was supported in a sling, from a hurt that he 
said he received in the effort to rescue an old woman 
who was falling down the side of a precipice. How in- 
effably attractive he looked, his wounded arm resting in 
a silken scarf, which the sympathetic Lucinda occasion- 
ally offered to arrange; and the visvivida of authorship, 
withal, so powerful, that despite his mutilation he con- 
tinued to write, with his left hand, his “ Sketches of So- 
ciety in Ireland.” 

“ Does my presence interrupt you ?” asked Lucinda, 
one day that Fitzroy was pursuing with some apparent 
difficulty his ordinary left-handed labors. 

‘'Interrupt me? No, Miss Nugent; it inspires me. 


176 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


Do you think, ” added he, sighing, “ that it is not of the 
greatest advantage to my work, to be able to gaze, in 
the pauses r \ my occupation, on an object so admirably 
calculated to fill my mind with images of loveliness and 
elegance ?” 

This, no doubt, was common-place enough ; but Lu- 
cinda treasured the compliment. And from hearing that 
her presence was a source of inspiration to the author, it 
occurred to her that possibly she might be able to give 
him more active assistance in the capacity of occasional 
amanuensis. Maria Edgeworth (who, be it noticed in 
passing, is one of Ireland’s most brilliant ornaments) 
somewhere says that juxtaposition makes more matches 
than Cupid himself. A community of thought, and oc- 
cupation, was here established between Lucinda and her 
erudite admirer, which he lost no opportunity of turning 
to the most solid account. And with that sickly, maud- 
lin sentimentality, that can whine and sigh over the very 
hopes it blasts, the very hearts it tortures — Lucinda often 
mentally indulged in sympathetic lamentations for the 
pain O’Sullivan would feel, whenever he should learn 
the progress Fitzroy was making in her wayward affec- 
tions ; whenever, in fact, he should learn their marriage, 
which she did not doubt would speedily take place. 

“ Poor Henry ! poor, poor fellow ! how little does he 
think, as he skims the broad surface of the vast Atlantic, 
or spootns along the mighty southern ocean, what 
changes may occur in those events in which his peace of 
soul is fondly treasured up! Noble, gallant, generous, 
faithful fellow ! Lucinda cannot refuse thee a sigh, a 
tear of sorrowing sympathy. Yet a destiny controls her 
actions; she can only deplore, while she cannot coun- 
teract, the fatal fascination that is rapidly hurrying her 
into the embraces of another. Poor, poor Henry ! may 
the blow be accompanied with some consolatory circum- 
stances, that may mitigate, in part, at least, its sad se- 
verity.” 

And Lucinda, all grace and loveliness, would immedi- 
ately follow up her sentimental soliloquy, by asking Fitz- 
roy i£ she could assist him in his compositions ? 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


177 


44 O, yes. I was sadly in want of you. Now will you 
promise me, you charming, wayward creature, to be a 
faithful amanuensis V 

44 Certainly — have you not always found me so V* 

44 But promise me, upon your honor.” 

44 Strange man ! — Well, I promise you, upon my hon- 
or.” 

Down sate Lucinda to her manuscript, and the accom- 
plished author immediately resumed his dictation. 

44 Head your next chapter with the word ‘MARTA- 
GON.’ draw three lines under the word, to indicate large 
capitals. Very well. Now, let me see 

44 4 I arrived at this enchanting place at six o'clock on 
‘a chilly winter’s evening, and found that my gallant 
4 friend Colonel Nugent had assembled a select coterie 
4 round his hospitable fireside. The change from the 
‘cold and dusky scene without, to the comforts of my 
4 friend’s well appointed domicile, — a change which the 
1 — the — the 

“Have you written thus far?” 

“In one instant,” replied Lucinda, whose pen ran like 
wildfire. 

444 Which the sharp sea-blast rendered peculiarly de- 
4 sirable, resembled the transition from the region of tor- 
4 ment to the fields of Elysium ; and assumed a stronger 
4 interest from the circumstance, that one of the very 
4 first persons by whom 1 was greeted was Miss Lucinda 
4 Nugent, my gallant friend’s sister, a lady whose unpa- 
4 ralleled personal attractions unite the dignity of Miner- 
4 va with the witching loveliness of Venus ; and which 
4 (transcendent as they are confessed to be, by all who 
4 enjoy the honor of her acquaintance) are yet surpassed 
4 by the charms of a mind which pours forth its exhaust- 
4 less stores of acquired information and natural perspi- 
4 cacity, in a stream of conversation which the wit can- 
4 not hear without delight, nor the sage without im- 
4 provement.' ” 

44 Positively I will not write that” exclaimed Lucinda, 
throwing away her pen. 

44 Positively you must write that, every word of that. 
Do you forget that you promised on your honor to 


178 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


write all I chose to dictate ? and do you imagine that I 
will consent to have my narrative despoiled of its most 
attractive and interesting features ? Upon my soul, what 
I have dictated is no more than the truth — it is less than 
the truth, far less ! the full extent ofcyour perfections is all 
unutterable ! I feel it here” (putting his hand on his 
leftside) — “Upon my soul you shan't spoil my book 
by wilfully, mischievously omitting the very best part of 
it all — it would be useless, too, for I should only be 
obliged to write it with my left hand, which you know is 
a very painful exertion — Come, charming Miss Nugent, 
don’t be cruel, don’t be refractory — condescend to 
write the truth, although it is in praise of yourself ; — re- 
member your promise.” 

Lucinda, of course, allowed the persuasions of Fitzroy 
io overcome her modesty, and she transcribed the flow- 
ing panegyric on her charms that he dictated, internally 
deeming him a man of incomparable judgment and dis- 
criminating taste. More, much more, the author added, 
working up occasional encomiums on Lucinda, and Colo- 
nel Nugent, and himself, and every one, in short, except 
O’Sullivan, in a sort of melodramatic sketch which he gave 
of the first evening passed at Martagon. The chapter 
ended with a description of the beautiful gold and pur- 
ple butterflies, and crimson cherries, painted by Miss 
Nugent on a fire-screen. 

“ Those little touches,” he observed, “ show the mas- 
ter. An injudicious author, now, would have been 
afraid to speak of your beautiful butterflies and cherries, 
lest critics might accuse him of trifling. But if butter- 
flies and cherries may be painted, — why, I demand, should 
they not be written about ? Again, I contend that, to 
record the beauty of your screen, show’s a vast and va- 
ried scope of observation ; it shows that the author’s eye 
ranged from great to comparatively small, and left no 
object of interest unnoticed ; it shows that he who could 
lecture on statistical, and enlighten on political topics, 
could also decide with the all-observant eye of taste and 
genius, on the merits of a fire-screen.” 

“Undoubtedly,” replied Lucinda, struck with the 
philosophic depth of the remark. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


179 


“ Now,” pursued Fitzroy, “ 1 must have a chapter 
on the following day’s amusements. I must tell about 
the rookery, and the billiard table ( not that Nugent’s 
billiard table is a rookery in the conventional meaning 
of the phrase) ; but there is something frappant, and 
unprecedented, in an author’s remarking the strange 
chaos of sounds produced by the exclamations of the 
players, the rattling of the balls, and the cawing of the 
rooks that soar around the ancient mansion. There is 
nothing new under the sun ; the ingredients of this cha- 
rivari are severally old enough ; the author’s originality 
consists in the happy and novel idea of bringing them 
together. Then, Nugent’s noble kennel of fox-hounds 
will afford me half a dozen pages of excellent descrip- 
tion.” 

It was arranged that Fitzroy Mordaunt’s book was to 
be illustrated , as the phrase goes, with original draw- 
ings by Lucinda, who really was an admirable mistress 
of the pencil. She accordingly furnished him with 
sketches of Martagon House, of pretty peasant girls, of 
athletic youths, of wakes, and patterns ; in short, of all 
that Fitzroy pronounced requisite to increase the interest 
or enhance the value of his book. 

Fitzroy’s talents were put in requisition, as a matter 
of course, to enrich Lucinda’s album. 

“ Now do give me something original — something of 
your own,” said Lucinda. 

“ 1 shall give you an impromptu request for another 
supply of raspberry-jam for my sore throat,” replied the 
poet, coughing ; and forthwith he inscribed in the recep- 
tacle for classic contributions, the following stanza:— 

tc Vour offer of jam, 

Was doux & mon time, 

The last day that we were together ; 

I wish for some more, 

For my throat ’s very sore, 

This* dire Boeotian weather.” 

“ Incomparable !” cried Lucinda, delighted with her 
friend’s Boeotian poetry ; “ how well you do these 
things !” 

“ Why, yes, I have always been considered to possess 


180 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


a peculiar talent for rhythm ; ‘ 1 lisped in numbers, as the 
numbers came/ Boeotian , too — that shows reading — 
Boeotia— a district of Greece, remarkable for bad weath- 
er ; you observed the point ?” 

“ Poor O’Sullivan !” ruminated Lucinda ; ct he was 
certainly a very fine fellow — ancient family, pleasing 
manners, and all that, — but he had not the literary ge- 
nius of Fitzroy ; he had nothing of the poet in his com- 
position ; he could not extract a moral or a sentiment 
from butterflies, or any thing of that kind — poor Henry ! 
may his fortunes be happier than mine ! he had excellent 
qualities, no doubt.” 

Lucinda did not like to acknowledge to herself, even 
in her inmost thoughts, that her mind was swayed by the 
prestige -of Fitzroy’s high connexions, and of the posi- 
tion which he held in the fashionable world. This, in- 
deed, amounted only to his being tolerated in one or 
two exclusive circles ; but Lucinda was an inexperienced 
girl, and rated her lover’s pretensions more highly. 

At length his wounded arm recovered so far as to en- 
able him to add music to his other attractions ; he played 
boleros and seguedillas on the Spanish guitar; and Lu- 
cinda sketched his graceful form, as he “ waked the rich 
tones” of the instrument. 

Mrs. Mersey, who was spending a few days at Mar- 
tagon (to which she had manoeuvred to procure an in- 
vitation, because Baron Leschen had been asked there), 
complimented Fitzroy on his musical skill. 

u Ah,” said he, “ the uncouth bagpipes of your Irish 
peasants will form a miserable substitute for the Spanish 
guitar, in my chapter upon £ Irish Music the Spanish 
guitar, which I had really expected to have found among 
them, and which, from their Milesian origin, has a very 
strong claim to be their national instrument.” 

He then played a gay bolero in a peculiar style, 
sweeping the chords with his nails, and looking lan- 
guishingly at Lucinda as he sang. 

“ Beautiful 1” said Mrs. Mersey. 

“ Now, why do not your Irish peasants play and sing 
boleros 'l It would make the country so gay, — it would 
make a tour through Ireland so delightful, to hear the 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


181 


mellow strains of the guitar struck up now and then be- 
hind a furze-bu^h. Thus it is that the Spanish peasan- 
try all serenade their sunny maidens; you can scarcely 
travel half a mile in Spain without hearing the gay notes 
of the bolero ; the exquisite musical taste of the peasants 
enlivens the country very much.” 

Mrs. Mersey laughed. “ The peasants!” she re- 
peated. 

“ Yes,” said Fiizroy, “ the peasants ; why do you 
laugh ?” 

“ Because my mind immediately reverted to the Irish 
peasantry. Oh ! it would be really too ludicrous ! just 
fancy a stout, large-boned Munster bog-trotter — Jerry 
Hovvlaghan, for instance, —with a crazy caubeen upon 
his head, a diideen \n his mouth, his tattered habiliments 
confined with a cestus of hay round his waist, — fancy 
him reclining in a picturesque Murillo attitude on the 
side of a turf-clamp or a ditch, and guitaring away h 
V Espagnol to Peggy O’Dogherty ! why, Cruickshanks 
himself could not fancy a scene more bizarre !” 

Fitzroy did not join in Mrs. Mersey’s railery : he said, 
in a tone of dictatorial pomposity, that he could not 
conceive why the ears of Jerry Hovvlaghan might not, 
under proper tutelage, be trained into a due apprecia- 
tion of harmonious sounds ; nor why his fingers, as well 
as those of Peggy, or Margaret O’Dogherty, might not 
be tutored to the production of tones that would afford 
them a delightful amusement in the hours of relaxation. 
He would expressly advocate, he said, in his forthcoming 
work, the study of music for the Irish peasantry, as a 
powerful means of ameliorating their dispositions, har-, 
monizirig their minds, and softening the asperity, the 
ferocity, of their national character. As a poet, too, he 
could not contemplate without pleasure, an Arcadian 
scene so picturesque as that which a groupe of rustics 
would afford ; every youth with his guitar, and every 
maiden gaily chanting to its tender strains, when the 
labors of the day were at an end. 

“ My most poetical and imaginative friend,” said the 
widow, “ when the labors of the day are over, our poor 
Jerrys and Peggys are in general too tired to take les*» 

VOL. i. 16 


182 


tiiei husband-huntizh. 


sons in guitaring. The Jerrys usually go to bed, in or- 
der to recruit their exhausted strength for the toils of the 
morrow; and the Peggys in general sit up an hour or 
two longer, for the purpose of mending the stockings, or 
the shirts, or peradventure of knitting or constructing 
new ones for the Jerrys. How they would stare, how 
they would laugh, if Mr. Fitzroy Mordaunt, full fraught 
with the musical enthusiasm of Arcadian Spain, were 
suddenly to rush in among them, guitar in hand, ex- 
claiming, ‘ Peggy, put aside Jerry’s shirt and stockings ! 
Jerry ! get up out of bed ! I am come from the vales of 
Andalusia or the mountains of Galicia, to teach you a 
bolero !’ ” 

And the lively widow took up the guitar, and possess- 
ing no mean powers of mimicry, threw off a fanciful bo- 
lero, so much in the attitude and style of Fitzroy, — cast 
up her eyes with such a faithful caricature of the affect- 
ed expression of his, — waved her fingers, as he did, with 
such imitative grace when concluding, — that Baron Les- 
chen’s gravity was wholly overcome ; he burst out laugh- 
ing, at the same time exclaiming, 

“ Mein wort, Misdress Mersey, bote you did dat 
mighty well ! Ach ! bote you sing dat bolero vid moche 
comedy !” 

The flirtation between Lucinda and Fitzroy continued 
with unabated vigor ; he made a thousand formal, and 
informal, declarations of his passion, and offers of his 
hand. But although the idea of rejecting him never for 
an instant seriously entered her mind, yet she invariably 
abstained from explicitly accepting his suit. Whether 
her conduct was guided solely by caprice, or whether it 
arose from a lurking, unacknowledged disinclination to 
place O’Sullivan finally and for ever beyond her reach, 
we cannot pronounce. But certain it is, that whatever 
were the motives by which she was actuated, Fitzroy was 
unable to obtain a verbal promise of her hand, notwith- 
standing the strong and unequivocal encouragement 
which her manner afforded him. 

At length he received a letter from his commanding 
officer, informing him that his leave of absence had been 
renewed and protracted beyond all precedent, and that 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


183 


now since his arm, by his own acknowledgment, m> lon- 
ger afforded a pretext for further indulgence, he should 
at once repair to quarters. 

He paced the esplanade before .the house, perusing 
this epistle. 

“Is he not an engaging fellow ?” said Lucinda. 

“ Engaging ? how ? Has he entered into any engage- 
ments with you V ’ retorted Mrs. Mersey quickly. 

“ You are wilfully stupid, 5 ’ said Lucinda ; “ my ques- 
tion referred to his appearance. Don’t you think his 
large hussar cap extremely becoming?’ 5 

“I think the hussar capon little pallid Fitz, is ex- 
tremely like an extinguisher on the top of a farthing can- 
dle. How very slight he is! such morsels of men should 
never be allowed to enter the army. He is only fit to 
write nonsense in albums — about butterflies or cherries.” 

This palpable hit revealed to the astonished Lucinda 
that the acute widow was a party to more of her secrets 
than she could wish. She did not lack spirit to enter 
on a brisk defence of Fitzroy ; but just as she was about 
to reply to the sarcasms of Mrs. Mersey, the erudite and 
military hero entered the room, and with looks of dis- 
may announced the necessity for his immediate depar- 
ture from Martagon. As soon as a fitting moment of- 
fered, he renewed his protestations of love to Lucinda, 
and pressed for a decisive answer. 

But the maiden still coquetted. “ We will talk more 
about it in Dublin,” said she; “we meet there next 
month, do we not 1 It is not, perhaps, the most proba- 
ble thing in the world that I shall be inexorable \ for the 
present I cannot say more.” 

And with this vague answer, Fitzroy was compelled to 
depart. He made another effort to obtain a more defi- 
nite reply, but in vain. He was scarcely consoled, when, 
on bidding farewell, he saw the tears start unbidden to 
her eyes as she beheld the affecting stowage of himself, 
his portfolio, and double-barrelled gun, in the chaise that 
conveyed him from Martagon. 

“Is it possible,” said Mrs. Mersey, “ that that queer 
little incarnation of pedantry, conceit, and absurdity, has 
effaced from your mind the remembrance of the noble 


184 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


O’Sullivan ? O, woman ! well might the bard pronounce 
thee, 

'Uncertain, coy, and hard to please !' 

though, on second thoughts, if you can deem Fitzroy a 
prize, you must be somewhat easily pleased, I confess.” 

CHAPTER XXI. 


And then the justice * * * 

Of fair, round belly, with good capon lined, 

* * * * * * 

Full of wise saws and modern instances. 

ShAKSPEARR. 

“ Really this is too bad !” exclaimed Lady Jacintha, 
poutingly, as she entered the drawing-room at Knocks* 
nea one day, and found Mrs. Mersey and Leschen tete- 
a-t6le. 

“ What is too bad V’ languidly demanded the widow, 
who imagined that her ladyship’s pathetic exclamation 
referred to the aforesaid tete-a-tete. 

“ Guess !” answered Lady Jacintha, — “ but no, — you 
could not guess. The grievance is, that we have all been 
invited to dine at Mr. Madden’s, and my father impe- 
riously insists upon our going.” 

“ How cruel !” exclaimed Mrs. Mersey; “ he should 
at least exempt your ladyship.” 

“ But he has not the smallest idea of exempting my 
ladyship, or any one, in fact ; for he says that Madden 
has been of the highest utility in this electioneering bu- 
siness, and that a refusal would certainly deprive us of 
his services. Go, it seems, we positively must — and the 
horror of sitting out a dinner and soiree at such a place ! 
Oh ! can you conceive it?” 

“ I can perfectly conceive it,” responded Mrs. Mersey, 
“and I think it no horror at all; on the contrary, it is 
infinitely amusing. No doubt they give one most out- 
landish things to eat, but then we can lunch before we 
go there ; and really the attempt they make at enter- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


185 


taining one, ancf the sort of queer people one meets 
there, are worth making an effort to see. It is all broad 
farce — rather low, unquestionably, but still very laugha- 
ble.” 

“ But do dey give bad ting to eat ?” asked the Ba- 
ron. 

“ I really cannot answer for their general cuisine, 55 
responded Mrs. Mersey, “ for I only dined there once 
it was at some former electioneering period. I was ex- 
cessively amused at the elegance of the young gentle- 
men, and the romance of Miss Selina ” 

“ But de dinner? 55 said Leschen. 

“ Oh, the dinner was unique in its way ; — there was 
half a sheep, I believe, on one dish— the legs appeared 
protruding in every direction — and I think that a coro- 
ner’s inquest should have certainly sat upon the beef, in 
order to ascertain the mode in which the venerable grand- 
sire of the herd, to whose person it had once appertain- 
ed, had met his death. 55 

“ Ach, mine excellent lady — but it surely is not ne- 
cessary to dine vid dese beoples ? 55 

“ Absolutely necessary, Baron; you see with what 
alacrity 1 consent to perform my share of the penance. 
In truth, I shall be very much amused — we may lunch, 
ay, or dine here first — and go to Madden’s to laugh ! — 
the odd, vulgar persons Madden assembles about him are 
inimitable.” 

“ But could not all de beoples you call voters, give 
deir vote to milord Bally fallin’s friends, widout our go- 
ing to eat dis bad old beef at Mr. Madden’s? Upon 
mine true wort, I do not understand — not at all — how 
de bat beef concern de election. 55 

“My dear Baron, you are unacquainted with the mys- 
teries of Irish elections, and must take all these things 
upon trust ; you will probably receive a special invitation, 
and Lord Ballyvallin will feel particularly obliged by 
your going.” 

As Mrs. Mersey predicted, Leschen did receive a 
card from Madden, to which he politely returned the 
following answer : 

“ Baron Leschen present his compliment at Mr. Mad-- 
16 * 


186 


'STUB HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ den, and wil haf de honor to wait upon your compag- 
tc nie at six o'clock on Thursday*.” 

“ Poor Madden!” exclaimed the widow, ££ he and his 
voluminous wife are going to take an infinitude of trou- 
ble in order to enjoy the triumph of seeing it announced 
in a corner of the county papers, under the head of 
£ Haut Tony that Samuel Madden, Esq. entertained at 
dinner a numerous party of fashionables, including the 
Earl and Countess of Bally vallin. Lady Jacinlha O’Cal- 
laghan , Baron Leschen, Mrs. Mersey, &c., &c., &c. — 
It will not be easy to decide whether the dinner or our 
hostess is the more overdressed. Baron ! if you have 
any taste for farce, I promise you it will be amply grati- 
fied. Why people do make themselves so supremely ri- 
diculous, I cannot conceive ; however, it is very fortu- 
nate for us that they do so, or else we should suffer sad 
ennui, for want of something to laugh at.’ 

££ But who is dis queer Misder Madden,” asked the 
Baron, ££ dat miladi Jacintha look so shock at de notion 
of going to dine vid him ?” 

He is a magistrate,” answered the widow ; ££ and a 
very extraordinary genius in his way. It is not, perhaps, 
very creditable in Lord Bally vallin to patronize such a 
person ; but electioneering leaves one no alternative, and 
Madden is a staunch Tory. ,, 

“ But if dis man is magistrate, must he not . den be 
true shentelman ?” 

“ Oh, that by no means follows. You must know, 
my dear Baron, that the office of magistrate was, until 
very lately, an extremely profitable trade in Ireland, in 
the hands of upstart party men. Madden was one of 
these : and previously to the establishment of Petty 
Sessions — at a period, when every justice of the peace 
heard causes in his own house — it was really ridiculous 
to see a crowd of wretched litigants jostling each other 
in Madden’s hall of audience, relying for success, not 
upon the merits of their case, but upon the geese, ducks, 
hens, turkeys, or baskets of eggs, their wives invariably 
brought to influence his worship's decision. On days 
when Madden heard cases, his office was a regular poui- 


♦ Verbatim. 


THE IHJSBAHD-HUNTEli. 


187 


• f 

try-yard, and presented an edifying uproar, from the 
swearing of the litigants, the cursing of the justice, and 
the quacking, crowing, gobbling, clucking noises of the 
fowl that were brought as douceurs to the worshipful jus- 
tice of the peace.” 

<c Very marfellous, upon mine honest wort ! And d is 
is fot you call justice in Ireland ?” 

“ Oh, not exactly — things are somewhat better now.” 

“ Ach ; but you heard de quack-quack, gobble-gob- 
ble 

“ I did, I own, one day that Lord Ballyvallin drove 
me to Madden’s. Mrs. Madden received us, and affect- 
ed no concealment whatever. ‘ A few little compli- 
ments them troublesome rogues of fellows make Mad- 
den,’ said she, as Lord Ballyvallin glanced at the bask- 
ets of poultry ; £ I ’m sure it ’s the least they may give 
him, for taking up so much of his time.” 

“ But how did dis man become magistrate at first r” 

“ Oh, he obliged some influential friend, who got him 
the commission of the peace at once.” 

“ I suppose,” said Leschen, “ he had money V 9 

“ He is wealthy enough.” said the widow. 

“ Is it old estate ?” 

“ Oh, no. Indeed, I know not how he acquired his 
fortune ; he was tolerably rich before he came to reside 
here ; he is a native of a distant part of the kingdom. 
But it has been said that he occupied a farm on a rocky 
and dangerous coast, and that he held out false lights in 
stormy weather, thus causing, or hastening, the wreck 
of several vessels, whose cargoes, when drifted ashore, 
he unscrupulously plundered. The increasing vigilance 
j\m\ efficiency of the coast guard, at length put an end 
to this infernal practice, but not until Madden had real- 
ized considerable wealth by its means.” 

“ I schvvear I will not dine wid such a man !” exclaim- 
ed Leschen indignantly. 

44 Pooh ! I do not give you this as fact, by any 
means ; it is only rumor, and there probably is not one 
word of truth in it.” 

The day of the important festivity at length arrived. 
Lady Ballyvallin had a cold, and Lady Jacintha had an 


183 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


opportune sore throat. They both found it wholly im- 
possible to overcome their fastidious reluctance to go. 
Mrs. Mersey, who had no such scruples, rejoiced in the 
prospect of having Baron Leschen to herself. 

We change the scene to Madden’s. 

The cook had commenced the duties of the day by 
getting drunk at a very early hour. Mrs. Madden, dis- 
tracted by her culinary cares, and the toilette of her 
daughters, was glad to snatch a momentary repose in the 
contemplation of the charms of Miss Selina, who was 
dressed in the most extravagant exaggeration of fashion- 
able costume. Selina’s face was pretty, but her person 
was low and broad : her waist was squeezed into a mar- 
velously small compass ; and the superabundant flesh 
seemed thus driven up and down to form enormous 
shoulders, back, and hips. Her head was large, and 
this defect was rendered conspicuous by that frightful 
style of hair-dressing termed the giraffe. 

The hour of double-knocks and nervous trepidation 
arrived. 

{£ Huge uproar lords it wide.” 

Mrs. Mersey was driven by Leschen in a poney-phae- 
ton, and reached Madden’s mansion at an earlier hour 
than the cards of invitation had appointed. Forthwith, 
a cry resounded through the house that Lord Ballyvallin 
had arrived : the pattering of many feet in rapid succes- 
sion was heard in every part of the establishment. But 
there did not seem any reasonable hope that the hall- 
door would speedily be opened, notwithstanding the in- 
cessant knocks with which it was assailed by the foot- 
man. 

Mrs. Madden, abandoning the concerns of the kitchen 
to the care of those volunteer assistants denominated 
“ helpers,” fled upwards to decorate her person. At 
length Mr. Madden popped his head out of an upper 
window, and percieving the carriage civilly said, 

“ Ho ! ho ! I am proud you are come, Mrs. Mersey. 
I wish to gracious some of them would open the door 
for you ; but all the folk in the house seem no better 
than fools, running backwards and forwards, hurry-skur- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


189 


ry. — Selina 1” shouted the polished host, “ you are 
dressed long enough ago to-day — open the door, if you 
cartget nobody else to do it, and let in Mrs. Mersey and 
the Jarman gentleman. I beg your pardon, Sir, — but I 
presume you ’re Baron Leschen V’ 

Leschen bowed assent with infinite suavity. 

“ I ’m just toileteering here,” said the Justice of the 
Peace ; “ I ’ll be down with you all, in a few minutes.” 
And saying this, he withdrew his head from the window. 

At length a stable-boy, with a striped calico jacket 
hastily pulled over a greasy brown waistcoat, opened the 
door and admitted the guests. Mrs. Mersey requested 
permission to arrange her dress up-stairs. 

Miss Selina was seriously puzzled. Her own apart- 
ment, she well knew, was possessed by half a score of 
brothers and sisters, who were finishing their toilette 
with lavender water and huile de rose, which elegant 
luxuries had as yet only found their way to the dressing 
tables of the grown ladies of the family. She therefore 
timidly ventured to try her mother’s room, where Mrs. 
Madden had at that moment commenced her toilette 
with determined vigor. A scream issued from within, and 
the door was unceremoniously«slapped in the face of Mrs. 
Mersey, who was accordingly compelled to be content 
with such facilities as the dingy mirror in the drawing- 
room afforded, to arrange her jetty curls, which the wind 
had blown into luxuriant wildness. 

“ My appearance suffers much,” said she, “ by my ex- 
clusion from your boudoir; I fear I shall not be able to 
exhibit ‘ a classic head’ to-day.” She arranged her cheve- 
lure, however, contrasting it very complacently with the 
tight, sausage-like rolls, into which the abundant tressei 
of Selina were constrained. 

Mrs. Madden at length appeared, followed by all her 
junior children, each of whom approached Mrs. Mersey 
in turn, dropping a curtsey, or popping a bow, while 
their mother gazed upon their graceful movements with 
a satisfaction truly parental. 

Mr. Madden next entered, flourishing a large orange 
tilk mouchoir ; and bowing profoundly to the widow 
and the Baron, he renewed his hospitable gratulations. 


190 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ I am truly proud to see you here, Mrs. Mersey, and 
you, Baron Leschen. Ah! we’ve been doing great 
things for our candidate — three-and-forty plumpers pro- 
mised me. Faith I can promise you I frightened the 
fellows before I could get them to promise, but I think 
I ’rn pretty sure of them now. All loyal, constitutional 
men must band together now, Baron Leschen, in sup- 
port of church and state ; the Popish gang will strug- 
gle for ascindancy, but the fault is our own if we let 
them get it.” 

“ I do not understand Irish affair — no ! not at all,” said 
Leschen, in a deprecating lone. 

lf Then I ’ll be most happy to instruct you, Baron,” 
said the Justice. “ Every Papist in the kingdom, from 
Daniel O’Connell to to the bare-footed girl that sells 
eggs, is plotting perpetual rebellion and murder, and 
watching their time to rise and cut the throats of all the 
Protestants. There now, in two words, is the long and 
the short of the whole matter.” 

“ Dat is most unfortunate, if true,”' observed Leschen ; 
“ but I do not moche beliefs it.” 

“ Oh, my dear Baron, Pd get fifty credible witnesses 
to swear it point blank — chaps of the proper sort, you 
know, that would give you chapter and verse for every par- 
ticle of the conspiracy.” While Madden thus enlighten- 
ed Leschen, Lord Ballyvallin arrived, precisely as the 
clock was striking six. The mischievous widow, for the 
purpose of creating confusion, had, as we have already 
mentioned, prevailed upon Leschen to come at an ear- 
lier hour. 

Madden recounted his canvassing triumphs to Lord 
Ballyvallin. 

“ Pray,” asked his Lordship, did Casey the black- 
smith promise you his vote ? I remember that he always 
was an obstinate fellow.” 

“ He’s as obstinate, my lord, as ever. I thought I 
could work him, but I might as well have tried to move 
SJieveguillim. I walked into his smithy, and there he 
was working away at the bellows. ‘ How are you, Pad- 
dy Casey?’ says I. ‘Get out o’ my house/ says Paddy 
Casey. ‘Why I’m asking how’s your health, maaT 


THE HtlStJAND-HUNTElt. 


191 


says I. ‘ It’s my vote you want,’ says Paddy. ‘And 
suppose it is, what harm for either you or I ?’ says I 
again. With that, my lord, Paddy Casey steps out to 
confront me, and squares his big elbows by his sides. 
‘Do you see that ould black bellows, Mr. Madden ?’ says 
he. 1 1 do/ says I. ‘ Then I tell you, Mr. Madden/ 
says Paddy, c that if that ould black bellows had a vote, 
and if that bellows gave that vote to e’er a Bally vallin 
candidate, — the devil blow the blast that bellows ever 
should blow again for Paddy Casey/ — And with that he 
wheels round to his forge, and keeps working away at a 
pike-head, or something very like one, and wouldn’t con- 
descend to speak another word to me as long as I re- 
mained there. O ! Ill be even with Mr. Paddy Casey 
yet, I promise him/* 

Lord Bally vallin smiled at the magistrate’s excessive 
zeal. “ Get his vote by all means, if you can, Mr. Mad- 
den, but otherwise do not molest him, I entreat you/ 5 

Other guests successively arrived, including Colonel 
Fancourt, and the officers of an English regiment quar- 
tered in a neighboring garrison, who had received invi- 
tations “ to meet Lord Ballyvallin/ 5 Miss Cecelia M‘- 
Sweeney, an emulous and indefatigable imitator of what 
she believed to be fashionable in dress and manner, 
shortly followed. All seemed in anxious expectation of 
dinner; conversation was faintly and more faintly sup- 
ported ; even Madden’s political commentaries seemed 
at a discount, and many an expectant look was cast at 
the door. 

“ What do we wait for ?” whispered Madden to his 
wife, who was seated in an arm-chair, in all the glory 
of a scarlet velvet gown, and a coiffure adorned with a 
monstrous bunch of artificial marigolds ; “ what do we 
wait for ? why is not dinner coming up ? I said six 
o’clock upon them cards, and it is now near seven/ 5 

“ We must wait a little longer, my dear/ 5 returned 
his orange and scarlet lady ; “ they have not all come 
yet; there’s Mulligan and Ronan to come, plague take 
their fashionable humors for keeping us waiting so 
late l 55 

As Mrs. Madden spoke, a tremendous double knock 


192 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


was heard, immediately followed by loud and boisterous 
laughing and talking in the hall.” 

“ They ’re come ! they ’re come !” said Selina to her 
bosom friend Miss Ellis, in a tone indicative of the most 
unequivocal satisfaction. A tender pressure of the hand, 
intimated the sympathetic pleasure felt by the bosom 
friend at this auspicious arrival. 

Mulligan — (Isabella’s old stage-coach companion) — 
bolted into the room, bowing in all directions with an 
oily pliancy, that evinced the perfect conviction enter- 
tained by this accomplished gentleman, that his obsequi- 
ous inclinations of person were in the highest degree 
elegant and graceful. Ronan was of a different order 
of genius. He was a medical student, walked the hospi- 
tals, and wore voluminous gilt chains, which seemed to 
encircle his person, to traverse his waistcoat, and after 
making the circuit of his neck, to lose themselves in ma- 
zy complexity. On his entree, his right hand meander- 
ed among his multifarious chains, while his left was en- 
gaged in adjusting the sit of his neck-cloth. He moved 
forward with a sliding shuffle, and an air of scientific 
pretension, that evidently showed that he did not under- 
rate himself. 

“ How d’ye do, Mrs. Madden?” said Mr. Mulligan, 
r< I vow you are looking remarkably well — I hope my 
friend Ronan and I ain ’t too late, and haven ’t kept your 
dinner waiting.” 

And then, without waiting for an answer, he took 
his seat upon the sofa, upon which the interesting me- 
dical student had already thrown himself. They 
laughed and whispered, and whispered and laughed, 
while Mrs. Madden, struck with admiration of their ele- 
gant and fashionable ease, desired her son John — her 
eldest hope, — in whispered accents, “ to observe how 
those elegant young gentlemen behaved, and to imitate 
their manners if he could.” 

Dinner was announced, and Mulligan, bouncing for- 
ward, obsequiously offered his arm to conduct Mrs. Mad- 
den to the dining-room. Arrived at the foot of the ta- 
ble, Mr. Madden thus addressed his guests ; 

f ‘ Gentlemen and Ladies — Lords and Commoners— 


THB HUSBAND-HUNTER. 193 

Colonels, Captains, and Subalterns — you all of you know 
your rank, and take your places accordingly 

“Hear, hear, hear !” said Mr. Mulligan. 

The dinner proceeded as dinners usually do, at which 
the uninitiated are oppressively civil, from a wish to dis- 
play their superlative breeding. Mulligan, Ronan, and 
nearly a dozen such gentlemen, insisted on taking wine 
seriatim with Mrs. Mersey; and Mrs. Madden insisted 
on having Lord Bally vallin and Baron Leschen helped 
successively to every hyperborean dish at table. 

Among the guests there was a Mr. Green who wore a 
wig. This person’s name afforded opportunities for in- 
numerable witticisms of that slang description of which 
Mulligan and his medical friend were such able masters. 
Puns upon a name, almost always offensive to good 
breeding and good taste, were copiously discharged at 
Green while dinner lasted; and always with that air of 
inimitable self-satisfaction on the part of the wits, which 
seemed to challenge universal admiration and applause. 
Among the feathered shafts discharged by the accom- 
plished Mr. Mulligan, were such brilliant hits as these; 
namely, that fi ‘ Green was looking rather blue “that 
there recently must have been a skirmish somew here, as 
there was a wig upon the Green;” “ that he was not a 
gosling but a Green goose,” &c., &c., &c., all which 
exquisite morceaux of gentlemanlike humor were follow- 
ed by appealing glances for Mrs. Mersey’s admiration. 
The widow smiled applause to encourage the absurdity 
of Mulligan ; and that incomparable personage felt cer- 
tain he had made a deep and highly favorable impres- 
sion. “ Exquisite man !” thought the widow, “ he is 
Slang Incarnate! his eye, voice, face, manner, move- 
ments, are all and each of them slang, slang, slang ! His 
very existence is slang. Well — I certainly relish absur- 
dity at occasional intervals — and Mulligan doubtless is a 
prize in his way.” 

When the cloth was removed, Madden begged per- 
mission to propose a toast, which he said that he knew 
every male and female present would drink without sky- 
lights or heeltaps. 

“ Hear, hear, hear !” said Mr. Mulligan. 

VOL. i. 17 


194 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ The King!” said Mr. Madden, “ with all the hon- 
ors ; I propose the health of His Most Royal Majesty, 
with nine times nine, and no mistake — hip! hip! hur- 
rah !” 

The toast was accordingly drunk. 

“The King, ladies and gentlemen,” continued Mad- 
den, “ is my best friend ; I make no exceptions. Loy- 
alty, ladies and gentlemen, is my ruling principle, and I 
trust I shall abide by it as long as I live.” 

“ Permit me, Mr. Madden,” said Mulligan, with a 
bland and insinuating smile, “ permit me for the honor 
of green Erin, the Emerald gem, the western paradise, 
and all that, to propose a toast, to which I will venture 
to promise you that all there is of Irishman within our 
bosoms, or of manhood in our nature, will respond with 
inexpressible delight.” 

“Certainly — of coor$e,’’ said Mr. Madden. 

“ Gentlemen, are your glasses all charged ? They 
are ! — then, gentlemen, I beg most submissively, enthu- 
siastically, and with sentiments of the deepest admira- 
tion and all that, to propose the health of our hospitable 
hostess, Mrs. Madden, the accomplished Mrs. Mersey, 
and the other members of the peerless and bewildering 
sex, who have honored us on this festive occasion with 
their delightful and fascinating presence.” 

A shout of delight followed Mulligan’s gallant propo- 
sal ; and as soon as the noise had subsided, Madden took 
occasion to give utterance to his personal and separate 
approval : — 

“ You ’re a neat boy, Mulligan — you ought to be put 
in the almanack. But it’s just what a man might ex- 
pect from your character for gallantry ; you’re a deep 
one, ’pon my conscience ; a devilish deep one.” 

Mulligan grinned, and looked as if he felt and knew 
that he was exceedingly deep indeed. 

“ So deep,’’ said a brother wit, “ that one never can 
get to the boftom of him.” 

“ But,” said the medical young gentleman, “ some of 
the peerless sex, as my eloquent friend most appropriate- 
ly calls the faymales, should return thanks for the toast 
to their health, and the boundless applause with which 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


195 


we received it. It is customary upon all occasions to re- 
turn thanks for such compliments, and I vote that we call 
upon somebody.” 

“ Mrs. Madden ! Mrs. Madden !” shouted two or three 
voices. 

“Let Lord Bally vallin name,” said another. 

“ I leave it to the ladies to select their representative,” 
replied his lordship. 

The young ladies tittered, simpered, did pretty, and 
shifted on their chairs. “ They would not name anybo- 
dy ! oh, not for worlds.” 

“ Mrs. Madden ! Mrs. Madden !” cried Mulligan and 
Ronan. 

“ I declare I ’m much obliged to you, gentlemen,” said 
Mrs. Madden, “but if you want a speech, I haven't the 
gift of the gab, and Mrs. Mersey can talk like a play- 
book.” 

“ Mrs. Mersey 1 Mrs. Mersey !” shouted the admirer 
of feminine eloquence. 

“ It ’s right that the widow should speak,” whispered 
Mulligan to the student, “ for she ’s under such vast ob- 
ligations to our sex, having earthed four husbands you 
know.” 

“ Only three,” replied Ronan. 

“ Well, well, it’s all the same. Mrs. Mersey ! Mrs. 
Mersey ! Hear Mrs. Mersey ! hear ! hear ! hear !” 

“ She ’s knocked down for a speech, and no mistake,” 
said the student, sotto voce , — “ hear ! hear !” 

“ Gentlemen,” said Mrs. Mersey, rising with graceful 
self-possession, “ unaccustomed as lam to public speak- 
ing, I might naturally feel rather embarrassed in respond- 
ing to the general call you have made, if it were not 
that the spirit of kindness you have so unequivocal- 
ly manifested, gives me courage to thank you on the 
part of the ladies now present, for the very flattering 
manner in which our healths have been received ; and 
to assure you that, so far as I am personally concerned, 
I shall ever do all in my power to deserve the good opin- 
ion you have done me the honor to express. * Deeds, 
and not words,’ I have long since adopted as my motto ; 
and in the* spirit of this motto I have always acted. 


196 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


Gentlemen, I beg once more to thank you in the warm- 
est manner.” 

Loud, clamorous, and long continued applause fol- 
lowed the widow’s very pithy and spirited address ; and 
the ladies, soon after, retired. On their passage to the 
drawing-room they found the hall completely strewed 
with plates and dishes, so that it required some dex- 
terous pilotage to navigate a passage through the sea of 
china. 

When Miss Cecilia M’Sweeney reached the drawing 
room, she began to criticize the mirror in which Mrs. 
Mersey had been obliged, for want of a better, to ar- 
range her tresses. 

“ What a frightful, vulgar old looking-glass that is ! 
it looks as if it came out of Noah’s ark. I wonder, Se- 
lina, that you, who have some notions of decency, did 
not get it taken down, before the English colonel and 
his officers saw it. I suppose it is an old family piece, 
and of course an invaluable treasure. So pray, coax 
some of the servants to break it by accident, and get rid 
of the odious thing, for the sight of it absolutely sick- 
ens one.” 

While Cecilia thus displayed her taste, the festive 
joys of the dining-room were suddenly disturbed by a 
loud contention in the hall. Angry voices mingled with 
the crash of plates and dishes, and the master of the 
feast was required to appear in his capacity of magis- 
trate. Pompously rising from table, in the conscious 
pride of magisterial dignity, he proceeded to investigate 
the cause of the disturbance. 

“ I declare to you, my lord, and colonel, that it is an 
awful load to have the pace and quiet of the country on 
my shoulders, and wouldn’t have ever undertaken the 
like, and indeed was most anxious to throw it up long 
ago, if it wasn’t that my Lord High Chancellor and the 
Lord Lieutenant wouldn’t be satisfied by no means with- 
out I continued to hould the commission.” 

So saying, Madden quitted the room. 

Although he left the door ajar, his guests were unable 
to collect from what passed in the hall, the nature of the 
case that required his interference. Half a dozen voices 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


197 


were raised together in attempted explanation of some 
assault, which the cook, who was exceedingly drunk, al- 
leged to have been made upon her person ; and Madden 
applied in vain to the least intoxicated of the party to 
elucidate one of the various and conflicting statements. 

“I had no call to her, at all at all, your honor.” 

“ No call, you rascal ; did not you see the scuffle in 
the kitchen ?” 

“ I don't say but I might see it, your honor, but I 
hadn’t any call to it.” 

“ Oh, Sir,” exclaimed a female voice, “ don’t mind 
one word my husband says ! he ’s the wickedest man in 
the kingdom. Sure he pulled out his knife to cut off 
my head.” 

“Oh, Sir,” bawled the husband, “ don’t mind one 
word my wdfe says — she ’s the wickedest woman in Ire- 
land, and would swear away my life for three-halfpence 
— I only threatened quietly and civilly to cut off her 
ear.” 

“ Oh, master, jewel ! said the cook, who, unable to 
stand, was seated on a large tureen, “ go and get your 
fine big pike that you ’ve hid under ground since the 
year of the hurry *, and lay about them all with it.” 

At this recommendation, Mr. Madden’s English guests 
became rather uneasy, lest the evening should end in a 
general rebellion. Madden coughed loudly, declared he 
would hear no more complaints till morning, and order- 
ed that the hall should be cleared. The cook, in the 
meantime, reeled into the dining-room unobserved, and 
taking her place behind a window curtain, awaited the 
moment of her master’s return from the hall. Madden 
had scarcely reseated himself, when she broke from her 
concealment, exclaiming that the d — d English officer’s 
servant who had given her the kiss, had run out of the 
house in dread of his life ; and now,” added she, “ that 
them orange devils are all scampering away for fear of 
your long pikes, master dear, we may hope to have quiet 
and pace again for a while.” 

Madden authoritatively ordered his loquacious domes-; 

* The rebellion of 1798, familiarly called the Hurry, 

17 * 


1 98 


THE HUSBAND-IIUNTKU. 


tic to quit the apartment ; and in order to clear up his 
loyalty, on which her drunken hints had thrown some 
shade, he begged to propose <4 the Duke of Wellington ; 
and may his Tory principles for ever bear the bell over 
all the universe.” 

“Hear, hear, hear!” cried Mulligan. “The Tory 
Duke for ever ! hip ! hurrah !” 

Mulligan and Ronan joined the ladies, as soon as they 
could ; and the medical young gentleman bestowed his 
attentions on Selina with such manifest success, that 
Mrs. Madden observed, in a whisper to her friend Mrs. 
Ellis, that she did not like to see that red-skulled fel- 
low making faces at her daughter. Indeed, the situation 
of the lovers afforded a scene for the pencil of Cruik- 
shank. Miss Madden, seated on the corner of a sofa, 
seemed all hips, back, and giraffe , as her ponderous chevc- 
lure completely overshadowed her pretty little face, which 
was bent with anxious interest on the man of medicine, 
who poured his tender protestations from a low stool on 
which he had seated himself at her feet. Ronan’s ap- 
pearance, when under the influence of the rosy god, 
whose orgies he had so recently quitted, was equally in- 
teresting with that of his mistress. His whiskers and 
hair were sandy, and his face had acquired a dusky uni- 
formity of hue from his frequent potations. From the 
peculiar elasticity of person displayed in the assenting 
bows that marked his manner, he had, among a certain 
set, acquired the soubriquet of “ Indian rubber.” 

“Muiligan,” said Ronan in. a whisper, “coax a little 
music from me, — slily now, — a couple of tunes on the 
flute would finish the job with Selina.” 

“ Weil then, 1 ’ll ask you,” said Mulligan. 

“ Begin with some one else,” replied the student. 

Accordingly, Mulligan applied to Selina to “ favor him 
with a tune on the piano” Selina declined, and asked 
Cecilia. 

“ The harp is my instrument,” replied Cecilia haugh- 
tily ; “I consider the piano as quite low ; it has got 
among milliners, and such people.” 

“For my part,” said Mulligan, “ I *m delightful ly fond 
of music, but no performer myself. However — 1 know 
who is” — (winking at the medical student). 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


199 


“ I hops don’t mean me,” said Ronan. 

“ Yes, but I do, though,” answered Mulligan. 

“ Oh, pray Mr. Ronan, feevor us,” cried Selina. 

“ Oh, pray Mr. Mulligan, preveel on him !” added Miss 
Ellis. 

“ Oh, pray, Mr. Ronan, meek us happy by hearing 
you,” said Selina, eagerly. 

“ I ’ll do any thing to make you happy, but upon my 
honor and conscience I ’m asheenied,” said the modest 
musician, turning his back on the ladies, and covering 
his face with his hands. 

“Come, come, Ronan,” said Mr. Mulligan, “don’t let 
the peerless sex scare you — have courage to treat us to a 
tender note or two — here are Lord Ballyvallin and tiie 
Colonel dropping in from the dining-room, so have done 
with your wavers and give us some quavers.” 

“ Do, pray, sing,” said Lord Ballyvallin, advancing. 

“Couldn’t — ’pon honor — couldn’t, my Lord. Ask 
me again,” he whispered to Mulligan. 

“Oh, come now/’ said Mulligan, “the company will 
be so cruelly disappointed if you persist in refusing. If 
Miss Madden begins, you ’ll assuredly follow, at least?” 

“ Oh, assuredly,” said the modest student, playing 
with his multitude of chains to relieve his embarrass- 
ment. 

Accordingly Selina arose, and, blushing and tittering, 
moved over to the pianoforte, her arm locked in that of 
her bosom friend, Miss Ellis. She commenced her per- 
formance by thrumming some old waltzes and quadrilles, 
and when Mr. Ronan had succeeded in conquering his 
obstinate modesty, he consented to join her in some vo- 
cal duets. 

“ Oh, wherefore dost thou tarry, love ?” — “ Romanoff 
and Catharine.” — “ The moon is the planet of love” — 
“Oh, why hast thou taught me to love thee?” — were 
quickly disposed of ; and Ronan, pleased with his suc- 
cesses, produced a book of miniature glees. 

“ Here is ‘ Glorious Apollo,’ ” said he ; “ a very hand- 
some tune, and 1 wish I could get you to try it at first 
sight.” 

“Oh! shocking!” said Cecilia M‘Sweeney. “I’ll 
stop my ears till it comes to second sight. These glees 


200 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


for men’s voices are dreadful, screamed by leedies. Glo- 
rious Apollo, indeed ! in such hands he will be anything 
but glorious.” 

Selina boldly adventured the difficult glee, which she 
played con molto strepito , pummelling the keys, and 
raising her voice, in proportion as she doubted her abili- 
ty to accomplish it. When the glee was finished, and 
the last discordant, timeless chords were struck, Mrs. 
Madden walked over to Colonel Fancourt, in the expec- 
tation of hearing her Selina’s praises. 

“ I fear Miss Madden may fatigue herself,” he polite- 
ly observed. 

“ Not at all, Sir ; she is used to it. She has a won- 
derful ear — picks up every tune she hears, and she has 
prodigious powerful wrists for music : it would not fa- 
tigue her to play for ten hours together.” 

“ A great advantage, certainly,” said the Colonel. 

“ Let us play it again,” said Ronan to Selina ; “ it ’s 
a sweet thing — you ’ll do it better this time.” 

Selina assented, and 6 Glorious Apollo/ thus encored 
by the performers themselves, was accompanied through- 
out by the convulsive laugh of Miss Cecilia M‘Sweeney, 
who asked Baron Leschen how he liked that Irish cry. 
Mrs. Madden and Mrs. Ellis nodded their heads out of 
time to the music. Poor Selina hardly struck one note 
right in every ten, but Ronan did his utmost to cover 
her deficiencies with the loudness of his strains. When 
she ended, “ That ’s elegant,” said the medical student. 

“ What a sweet voice Selina has,” observed Mrs. El- 
lis, to the complacent mother of the songstress. 

“ Pretty well, Ma’am, no doubt ; but her master says 
it is too high.” 

“ Too high !” said Baron Leschen ; “ dat is an unu- 
sual fault.” 

Mrs. Mersey explained, that by the phrase, “ too high,” 
Mrs. Madden meant too loud. 

When the praises of Miss Madden’s friends had been 
expressed, Ronan, with a tender, pensive air, stared full 
in the young lady’s face. “ Do you know,” asked he, 
“ what I ’m thinking of?” 

“How could I ?” faltered Selina. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


201 


“ Well then, ,, said the student, with a profound sigh, 
“I was thinking that if 1 was a leedy, and you were a 
man, I could not refuse you any thing you asked 016.’’ 

As Selina’s blushing face expressed a sympathetic feel- 
ing, Ronan was encouraged to proceed. 

“ I am going to get my picture drew.’* 

Selina sighed. 

“What would you think of the original ?” said the 
impassioned lover. 

Selina sighed still more deeply, and gazed with inex- 
pressible interest on the keys of the pianoforte. 

“ Ho, ho !” whispered Mrs. Ellis to Selina’s mamma, 
“ it is time for you to look sharp.” 

Mrs. Madden bustled over to the lovers, and inter- 
rupted their interesting dialogue by desiring the young 
gentleman to select a partner if he chose to dance. 
“ Come, Selina,” said she, “ let me see how you ’ll caper 
through the new quadrilles with Captain Mathews.” 

“ I hope,” whispered Miss Cecilia M‘Sweeney, seizing 
Selina’s arm as she passed, in order that her words might 
be perfectly heard, “ I hope that your hair may grow 
dark ; if I was you I ’d go to town and get Bassegio to 
dye it, light colored hair looks so silly.” — Ronan stood 
opposite Selina while Cecilia spoke, with his head repos- 
ing pensively upon his shoulder, and his eyes expanded 
in an amorous gaze at the fascinating object of his love. 

Mrs. Madden’s matronly person, broad, fat, and stiff, 
encased in the scarlet gown we have already described, 
occupied the foreground of the groupe. Mrs. Ellis’s ad- 
miration was strongly excited by the monstrous bunch 
of marigolds that surmounted her hostess’s head. 

“ Where do you get your artificials ?” she enquired. 

“Oh, Selina tosses them up for me in half an hour; 
you ’ve no notion how handy she is.” 

Selina saw Ronan’s amorous gaze ; her heart beat 
short and thick — she wished to dance with him, but in 
vain ; Captain Mathews approached, and with a super- 
cilious look at Ronan, seized his prize ; she accepted his 
arm with evident reluctance, and cast 

{ A longing, lingering look behind.’ 

At this moment, much confusion was caused by the 


20*2 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


crash of cups and saucers at the door, against which a 
servant leaned a tray of tea and coffee while opening it. 
The tray of course fell in when it lost its support, and 
Miss M’Sweeney, as well as Mrs. Mersey, kindly sym- 
pathized in Mrs. Madden’s pathetic lamentations for the 
loss of her broken chainy . 

Cecilia declared she would not dance, and seated her- 
self to examine a box of French toys which often accom- 
panied her to evening parties, where the display of the 
pretty, gaudy baubles, usually attracted the men to the 
side of their fair owner. She was soon joined by Ensign 
Belson, and Mulligan, who tossed her toys about with 
his usual ease. 

“ Positively, Ma’am,” said Mulligan, “when I saw 
you pulling out your box of tricks, I thought you were 
going to impose your workbox upon us. Now, I abom- 
inate a woman’s working, and housekeeping, and all that 
sort of thing, and I am resolved my wife shall never set 
a stitch, nor put her foot inside the kitchen.’ 

While Cecilia displayed her attractive toys, and ex- 
plained their usq to Ensign Belson, Ronan occupied him- 
self in examining the music-books that lay on the piano- 
forte. Miss Anne Madden complimented him on the mu- 
sical talent he had displayed in the course of the evening, 
and said she was sure that Sarah would be much improv- 
ed by their occasional duets. He modestly disclaimed all 
musical merit, and professed himself an humble amateur. 

“ What style of singing are you greatest in ?” asked 
Anne. 

“ Why, as to that — ’pon honor I don’t precisely know. 
Some of my friends hold one opinion, some another. 
Mulligan thinks I sing bravuras, “The Wolf — “ The 
Soldier tired,” and such things, in Braham’s style ; but I 
think myself I am decidedly greatest, in pensive, tindher, 
songs of sentiment and sinsibility. I feel them, Miss 
Anne — that ’s the secret.” 

When the dancers paused, Mr. Ronan accompanied 
his voice in ‘ Cherry ripe,’ with occasional chords on the 
piano-forte. 

“ Vestris all over!” exclaimed Mulligan. 

Miss Madden, who had disengaged herself from Cap- 
tain Mathews at the end of the set, was now seated on a 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


203 


sofa with her bosom friend u Kate Ellis.” As they chat- 
ted to each other, a sudden burst of laughter, occasion- 
ally acquiring strength from an ineffectual effort to sup- 
press it, would succeed a long and confidential whisper. 

“ What frisk there ’s between the two missies,” observ- 
ed Mrs. Ellis to Mrs. Madden. 

“ Ay, now or never, Ma’am. They’re now at the age 
for fun, poor things, and are right to enjoy themselves. 
Such spirits are delightful to look at. It’s all nature , sheer 
nature, Mrs. Ellis ; and between you and I, that frolic- 
some way goes farther in bewitching the men than any- 
thing else. Look at Ronan, how he stares at Selina, till 
his eyes are as big as two saucers. His heart ’s not his 
own, poor man, to-night.” 

Meanwhile, Captain Mathews was paying Cecilia 
some compliment, which she seemed to expect, upon 
her beauty. 

11 Oh, Sir,” said she, “I beg and entreat you may not 
judge of my beauty from seeing me this evening. I am 
quite a fright, from all the fatigue I have lately under- 
gone in traveling — it will take me a month to recover 
my looks.” 

<c Colonel O’Neale has said ” interrupted Mrs. 

Mersey. 

“ Oh, tell me,” exclaimed Cecilia, “ what he thinks 
of my style of beauty ? I hear he likes a Cleopatra head.” 

“ Of course, he admires you much,” said Mrs. Mersey. 

u He said Miss Harriet Belson was the most beautiful 
creature he had ever seen.” 

“ She has beautiful feet,” said Colonel Fancourt. 

cc Oh, Colonel,” exclaimed Cecilia, “ don’t look at my 
feet, I implore you,” and she tucked them back under 
her chair — “ they will appear to such sad disadvantage 
after Miss Harriet Belson’s.” 

Cecilia thus accomplished her object of attracting at- 
tention to her feet, which were unquestionably beauti- 
ful. 

Miss Madden asked her friend Kate Ellis, with whom 
she still continued on the sofa, if she intended going to 
Forrest’s party. 

“ I cannot say,” answered Kate, " I fear Mamma 
won’t go.” 


204 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ She must go ! Ronan and Mulligan are to be there.” 

“ Indeed that may, perhaps, make her bring me, for 
they are such very nice, gentlemanly men — it is not ev- 
ery day one meets such. Don’t you think them vastly 
improved since they went to France?” 

“ Surely ; their manners seem quite French, now.” 

“ Which of the two is the handsomest, do you think ?” 

“ Indeed,” said Selina, “ that ’s a knotty question — I 
think — let me see — I think that Ronan’s figure, and 
Mulligan’s face — though now that Ronan turns round, 
his smile is so sweet between his two whiskers ” 

“ But the whiskers are red,” said Kate Ellis. 

“ What matter for that? red or any other color, where 
would you see such a fine thick manly bush ? they ’re 
like a pair of good plump cauliflowers.” 

“ It certainly depends upon taste,” said Kate Ellis, 
with an air of perplexed indecision. 

“ Certainly,” answered Selina ; “ but for my part, on 
the whole, I must say I consider Mr. Ronan as the ni- 
cest of the tw'o.” 

“ l know you are talking about me/’ said the medical 
youth, in his most insinuating tones, as he approached 
the fair ones. 

“ Be quiet now, you conceited man, though I know 
you can ’t,” was the gentle rebuke of Selina. 

On the following day, Mr. Mulligan praised Mrs. Mer- 
sey to his medical friend. 

“ She is a chawming woman, Ronan, really — ain’t 
she ? ’Pon my soul I haven ’t been able to get her out 
of my head. So off-hand, and leedy-like, and all that.” 

“ A chawming woman certainly,” responded Mr. Ro- 
nan. “Do you know, Mulligan, I think you made a 
great impression there.” 

“ Eh? an impression ? ’Pon my soul I was thinking 
so myself. Faith she was tender, on two or three occa- 
sions; d- d tender, Ronan — eh ? what think you V 9 

“ Not a doubt in the world of it,” said the student, 
“I advise you to follow it up.” 

“Yes,” replied Mulligan, “d d easy too, if one 

only could get asked to Knockanea. Oh, she ’s hit — 
smitten — I saw that” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER; 

OR, 

“DAS SCHIKSAL.” 


BY 

DENIS IGNATIUS MORIARTY, ESQ. 

♦i 

AUTHOR OF “ THE WIFE-HUNTER.” 


“ Tell the politic arts 

To take aftd keep men’s hearts ; 

The letters, embassies, and spies, 

The frowns, the smiles, and flatteries, 

The quarrels, tears, and perjuries, 
Numberless, nameless mysteries !” 

Cowley. 


IN TWO VOLUMES. 

VOL. II. 


PHILADELPHIA : 

LEA AND BLANCHARD. 

SUCCESSORS TO CAREY AND CO. 


1839. 


E. & L. Merrtam, Printers, 

Brookfield, Mass. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER ; 

OR, 

“DAS SCHIKSAL.” 

A TALE. 


CHAPTER I. 

Well, brother Hilary, how goes the case 1 

School for Lawyers. 

Much interest was excited by the very peculiar cir- 
cumstances under which Miss Kavanagh’s name was to 
come before the public. Jonathan Lucas’s action against 
her, came on at an early period of the term. The law- 
yers derived infinite amusement from poor Isabella’s 
predicament ; some, who affected to give credence to 
Lucas’s statements, declared that it was a just retri- 
bution, that a girl who was capable of jilting the ami- 
able Jonathan, should be jilted in turn by Mordaunt. 
Others boldly affirmed that the reason of Mordaunl’s 
desertion, was, his having unexpectedly discovered her 
previous engagements with Jonathan. That prudent 
personage, meanwhile, was silent with regard to the 
various opinions ; he reserved the whole force of his ar- 
tillery for the day of battle. 

It arrived. The court was crowded at an early hour, 
and the case was opened by a youthful pleader, on 
whose brow appeared no symptoms of the diffidence 
which is sometimes incident to youth and inexperience. 

“ My Lords and Gentlemen of the Jury,” said Coun- 
sellor Merrypenny, “ I rise under feelings of such a very 
painful nature, that nothing short of the most overwhelm- 
ing sense of duty, could have possibly induced me to 
embark in such a case as the present. My Lords, I am 


4 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


a young man, and an unpracticed advocate ; and I feel 
that I have peculiar claims on the indulgence of the 
Court and Jury, when it is recollected that in embrac- 
ing that side of this important cause, which I believe, 
from a close and impartial investigation into facts, to 
be the just one, — I, — a young, unmarried barrister, 
with my fortune still to make, with all my domestic 
comforts unprovided for, — must almost unavoidably cre- 
ate for myself inmitigable enemies of the whole of the 
fairer portion of the community. Many of them arro- 
gate, as we are all aware, a right to tyrannize over 
our affections and feelings ; conscious that whatev- 
er capricious domination they may exercise, their charms, 
their blandishments will allure their victims to a speedy 
reconciliation. They know that, 

1 Though to their lot, ten thousand errors fall, 

— Look in their faces, — you ’ll forget them all !’ 

In short, they know their almost boundless power ; and 
I deeply regret that they sometimes calculate according- 
ly. It will be, my Lords, my painful task upon the pre- 
sent occasion, to exhibit to your view the wrongs sus- 
tained by my client, Mr. Jonathan Lucas ; the cruel 
wounds inflicted on his heart ; the capricious encour- 
agement afforded to his fondest hopes, and the sudden, 
cruel, cold destruction of the fairy edifice of bliss which 
Miss Isabella Kavanagh, the defendant in this cause, had 
encouraged him to build. 

“ To establish these serious allegations, my Lords and 
Gentlemen of the Jury, I am in possession of a volumi- 
nous body of the most convincing proofs ; — proofs, I am 
instructed to say, that would force conviction on the 
most reluctant breast. I shall trace the first footsteps of 
a passion which my client once, alas ! believed was mu- 
tual ; I shall trace it from the hours of childhood through 
successive years, until the period, when, fatally for my 
client’s peace, it pleased the defendant to give him that 
delicious, that seductive promise, which lured him on to 
hopes of felicity which are now unfortunately blighted ; 
that promise, for the breach of which, she now stands 
arraigned before the tribunal of your Lordships’ court. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


5 


“ My Lords, and Gentlemen of the Jury, the resi- 
dences of the Lucas and Kavanagh families were contigu- 
ous to each other ; their domains almost adjoined ; and 
their local propinquity, together with the numerous so- 
cial and estimable qualities of their inhabitants, produc- 
ed a considerable degree of intimacy > which ripened, in 
the instances of my client and Miss Kavanagh, into a 
warmer sentiment than simple friendship. That my 
client should admire Miss Kavanagh is not astonishing ; 
it would indeed be surprising, had he remained insensi- 
ble to the merits of a lady, whose charms are acknow- 
ledged, by all who have the honor of knowing her, to ex- 
ceed the share which usually falls to the lot of even the 
most favored of her sex. He made, upon repeated oc- 
casions, the offer of his hand ; which offer was received 
with that enchanting maiden coyness that so richly en- 
hances the boon that it postpones ; but is just as intelli- 
gible to the clear discernment of a lover, as the plainest, 
and most unequivocal avowal of mutual passion. 

“ Miss Kavanagh, my Lords, continued upon terms 
of the same familiar intimacy with my client ; she receiv- 
ed his visits with undiminished courtesy ; he was still her 
occasional partner in the dance,-— her companion in the 
promenade. I mention these things, as tending strong- 
ly, though collaterally, to confirm the fact which I wish 
to impress — namely, that Miss Kavanagh accepted the 
serious attentions of my client ; for the usual conven- 
tional rules of society forbid the continuance of former 
intimacy between a lady, and the lover, whose addresses, 
she has rejected.” 

Here Judge Crabstock interposed. 

“ I do not,” said he, “ wish unnecessarily to interrupt 
the speech of a young counsel ; I would wish, however, 
that you would proceed to the proofs of Miss Kavanagh’s 
acceptance of your client’s offer of matrimony.” 

“ My Lord, I was coming to that. I had nearly con- 
cluded the preliminary observations which I was desirous 
to address to your Lordships and the jury ; and was just 
about to call the first witness, a lady of unimpeachable, 
respectability. Make way here for Mrs. Curwen.” 

1* 


6 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


Isabella and her mother occupied a place in one of the 
galleries. What Mrs. Curwen had to allege, in Mr. Jon- 
athan Lucas’s behalf, they could not conceive ; their at- 
tention was on the utmost stretch to hear every word of 
her evidence. After she was sworn, — 

“You are acquainted,” said Mr. Merrypenny, “with 
both the plaintiff and defendant in the present action V 3 

“ I am.” 

“ You have often seen them in each other’s company V- 

“ Repeatedly.” 

“ How, permit me to ask you, was Mr. Jonathan Lu- 
cas received on such occasions by the defendant ?” 

“ Much as he was by most other young ladies ; that 
is, with marked courtesy and attention, for Mr. Lucas is 
a general favorite.” 

“ Your client, it seems, is a dangerous fellow to let 
loose among the fair sex / 1 said one of the counsel on the 
opposite side. 

Mr. Merrypenny waved his hand to enforce silence, 
and proceeded to examine his witness. 

“ Did you ever, Mrs. Curwen, observe any deviation 
on Miss Kavanagh’s part, from this ordinary courtesy, 
into a more marked and unequivocal evidence of her in- 
tentions ?” 

“ I did. I heard Mr. Jonathan Lucas propose mar- 
riage to her, and I heard Miss Kavanagh accept the pro- 
posal.” 

Isabella and her mother started. “ The wretched 
woman has perjured herself!” exclaimed the former, 
in an under tone, “ and for no conceivable reason.” 

“ Where,” pursued counsel, “ did this circumstance 
occur?” 

“ At Knockanea, Lord Ballyvallin’s residence, at a 
ball which was given by his Lordship, and at which Mr. 
Lucas and Miss Kavanagh danced together . 11 

“ State the circumstances, if you please.” 

“ Mr. Lucas told Miss Kavannah that he could make 
love, or propose marriage, in a syllogism ; or something 
to that effect, and he asked Miss Kavanagh if he had 
her permission to do so.” 

“ What was her answer ?’ 1 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


7 


“ ‘ Certainly ,’ said she. I am positive I heard her 
say ‘ Certainly .’ ” 

“ Did you hear her add any thing else ?” 

“ She whispered something immediately afterwards, 
but I did not hear what it was.” 

“ Now, my Lords and Gentlemen,” said Merrypenny, 
“ there’s direct evidence for you, of the most unimpeach- 
able nature. I have now to produce written , in addi- 
tion to this unquestionable oral testimony, which, I hum- 
bly submit, will remove all doubt upon the merits of this 
question from the most incredulous. Is there any per- 
son here — I believe there are many of Miss Kava- 
nagh’s acquaintances in court — is there any one among 
them that would have the goodness to say whether this 
is her handwriting ?” 

And, saying this, Mr. Merrypenny produced a letter, 
which he read for the edification of his auditory, pre- 
mising that it was addressed by Miss Kavanagh to Mr. 
Jonathan Lucas, and that its contents were so very expli- 
cit as to supersede the necessity of any comment. 

“ Thus, my Lords, does Miss Kavanagh address my 
client : — 

“ 1 My dear Jonathan, 

“ 4 Many thanks for your’s, which came 
while I was absent from home, yesterday. I was much 
pleased with what you said about the books.’ ” 

“ (This allusion to the books” interposed Mr. Mer- 
rypenny, “ referred to a sketch of a literary mode of oc- 
cupying time, which my client had drawn, in the letter 
to which this was Miss Kavanagh’s answer).” 

“ c As to the other affair,’ ” continued counsel, resum- 
ing his perusal of Miss Kavanagh’s letter — ;c ‘ why are 
you so cruelly pressing? You know you are possessed 
of my heart, although, perhaps, I ought not to confess 
it ; but as I am anxious that Miss Wharton may be my 
bridesmaid, I am compelled to defer our marriage until 
her arrival. 

“ * Ever your affectionate 

“ * Isabella Kavanagh. 

“ ‘ To Jonathan Lucas, Esq.’ ” 


8 


THE HUSBAND-nUNTER. 


The unlucky Isabella at once pereeived that this letter, 
which she perfectly remembered having written to Mor- 
daunt, had got into the possession of Jonathan ; whose 
additions to the document, — namely, the introductory 
phrase, “ My dear Jonathan,” — and the address at the 
end, “ To Jonathan Lucas, Esq.,” had been made with 
such inimitable skill, that even our heroine herself would 
never have known that they were not her writing, from 
any difference that could have been shown between the 
forged words and the rest of the letter. She now re- 
membered, loo, that Mordaunt had complained of never 
receiving this letter ; and she much regretted that she 
did not take the little ragged messenger to task, who, as 
our readers remember, had been appointed the Pacolet 
on that occasion ; and whose awkwardness or negli- 

f ence had unfortunately proved the means of furnishing 
onathan with such a formidable weapon against our 
poor heroine. While one of her counsel left the court 
at her request, to consult with her on this subject, Mr. 
Daly, another of her bar, commenced a cross-examina- 
tion of Mrs. Curwen. 

“ And so, Ma’am, you have sworn that you consider 
Miss Kavanagh’s having permitted Mr. Lucas to give her 

a specimen of love in a syllabub ” 

“ A syllogism, Sir/' said Mrs. Curwen, correcting the 
querist. 

“ Well, in a syllogism, or some such conundrum ; — 
you have sworn, Madam, that you consider Miss Kava- 
nagh’s permission to the plaintiff to exhibit his rebus, or 
riddle, as tantamount to accepting an offer of his hand ?” 

“O, my Lords,” said Merrypenny, “ there *s an infini- 
tude of ways in which consent may be expressed. It 
was ruled by Judge Fogramyin the very remarkable case 
of Skylark versus Splinker (see Foggerhead’s Reports, 
vol. xvii., folio 9877) , that a wink , in a given case, 
might be fairly and lawfully interpreted to signify con- 
sent/’ 

“ Pooh !” said Daly, “ there was no winking in the 
present case.’’ 

“ But it shows,” retorted Merrypenny, “ that the ex- 
pression of consent is not limited to any particular form/’ 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


9 


“Consent,” repeated Daly; “ consent to what? I 
deny that the language ascribed to Mr. Jonathan Lucas 
by the witness, was tantamount to an offer of marriage. 
He offers to teach a young lady how love may be made 
in a logical form. Now, by virtue of your oath, Mrs. 
Curvven — if I, Patricius Daly, offer to show you , in open 
court, how love may be made by Act of Parliament, and 
if you accept of my offer to exhibit such a mystery — 
would you ever imagine that I wanted to make you an 
offer of marriage, or would any one else be so mad as to 
suppose that you thereby engaged yourself to give me 
your hand V’ 

“ Oh, 5 ’ interposed Merrypeny, “ the modes of proposal 
are as multifarious as the language of consent. The ex- 
pression of the tender feelings of the human breast can 
never be tied down by any uniform rule ” 

“ Mr. Merrypenny,” interrupted Daly, “ 1 object to 
this course — I don’t want to hear you lecture on the vari- 
egated moods and tenses of the amorous passion ; I want 
to get an answer to my question from the witness. I ask 
you, Mrs. Curwen, whether, if l now offer to show you, 
as it seems the plaintiff offered to indoctrinate Miss Ka- 
vanagh, how an amorous proposal may be shaped into a 
syllogism — would I thereby render myself liable to the 
imputation of presuming to offer you my hand ? On 
your oath, now ?” 

“ On my oath, Mr. Daly, you’ve so little the look of a 
marrying man, that I don't think you would. In truth, 
Sir, the difficulty upon your part, in offering your hand 
to any lady, would be to persuade her that you were in 
earnest.” 

This produced a loud laugh at Daly’s expense. 

“ It is just as Mrs. Curwen has said,” observed Merry- 
penny ; “ in fact, the interpretation of such an offer must 
depend altogether on circumstances. 

“ Precisely,” rejoined Daly ; “ and I contend that Miss 
Kavanagh’s interpretation of Mr. Lucas’s offer to teach her 
the syllogistic mode of making love, did not involve the 
idea that the exhibition of his ingenuity necessarily includ- 
ed a proposal. Miss Kavanagh, it appears, was much at- 


10 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER, 


traded, at the period in question, by a certain Mr. Mor- 
daunt, of whom we may, probably, hear more anon ; 
and she therefore may have gladly availed herself of any 
new lights that the genius of Jonathan Lucas could 
throw on the amorous science, in order to bring them 
~ fhto play in the Mordaunt affair. I protest I never 
heard such a forcible, wilful misconstruction of language, 
as the pertinacious effort to uphold that Mr. Lucas's of- 
fer to show how love and logic might amalgamate — an 
offer, be it well observed, that a father, a brother, or a 
sister might make — was necessarily understood by Miss 
Kavanagh to be an offer of marriage.” 

The other counsel now returned with an affidavit, 
sworn by Miss Kavanagh, stating that the letter pro- 
duced by the plaintiff as having been written to himself, 
had been written by her, not to him , but to Mr. Mor- 
daunt ; that the words, “ My dear Jonathan," were an 
artful, and well-executed forgery ; that so were the 
words of the address at the foot of the letter; that the 
envelop enclosing it was directed, doubtless, in Miss 
Kavanagh’s hand-writing; but that that envelope, when 
sent to Mr. Lucas, had contained an unequivocal rejec- 
tion of his offer, a copy of which Miss Kavannah was pre- 
pared to produce, and for the production of the original 
she had served notice on the plaintiff : that Miss Kava- 
nagh could also produce Mr. Mordaunt’s letter, to which 
the letter of her’s, paraded by the plaintiff, was the an- 
swer, in order that the Court might see how accurately 
the subjects in both letters tallied, thus proving their real 
connection with each other. She then went on to state 
her belief as to the means whereby her epistle to Mor- 
daunt bad fallen into Jonathan’s possession ; and prayed 
the Court to stay judgment until she could procure the 
evidence of the boy, to whose care it had been commit- 
ted ; which she trusted, under heaven, would place in its 
true light the nature of the base conspiracy against her. 

Against the motion for postponement, the counsel for 
Jonathan argued with all the chicanery they could press 
into their service, but in vain. It was granted ; and 
when the nature of the whole transaction became gener- 


THE HUSBANJVHUNTER. 


11 


ally known, and a verdict in our heroine’s favor was 
pronounced, amidst the loudest acclamations of a crowd- 
ed court, the gentle plaintiff deemed it prudent to with- 
draw from the popular indignation, by a rapid flight to 
the Isle of Man. 

Flushed with the brilliant success that crowned one 
arduous contest, our heroine prepared with redoubled 
energy for the other struggle that awaited her. The 
trial of the cause of “ Kavanagh versus Mordaunt,” ex- 
cited, if possible, still greater public interest than that 
of “ Lucas versus Kavanagh,” had done. It is needless 
to weary the reader with forensic details. It is sufficient 
to say, that of damages which were laid at <£.6000 Miss 
Kavanagh recovered £.3000; and afforded a salutary 
lesson to all the “ gay marauders” on the sacred territory 
of a woman’s heart, who lead their unsuspicious victims 
to believe in promises that some selfish consideration 
may turn them aside from fulfilling. 


CHAPTER II. 

She is a most variable and changeful nymph, capricious as the air, and more 
giddy. 

Ben Jonson. 

Colonel Nugent and Lucinda soon visited Dublin, 
and took up their abode at the Colonel’s house in Merri- 
on-street. Lucinda had permitted Fitzroy to correspond 
with her, and he availed himself of her permission at the 
rate of some two or three letters each week. These 
epistles contained scraps of impassioned poetry thrown 
off by Fitzroy in his happiest moods of inspiration ; or, 
peradventure, they lamented, in pathetic tone, the du- 
plex injury sustained by his heart and his “ Sketches of 
Irish Society,” from his tedious separation from Lucin- 
da. The young lady’s replies were voluminous and reg- 
ular ; until an event occurred one day that produced 


12 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER* 


some change in her opinion regarding the prudence or 
policy of continuing the correspondence. 

It chanced, that, visiting in Stephen’s Green one 
morning, she met Lord Ardbraccan, who called every 
day at Mrs. Kavanagh’s. The all accommodating Mrs. 
Delacour happened to be there, and communicated to 
Lucinda his lordship’s presumed intentions of resuming 
the matrimonial yoke, with such emphatic eloquence, that 
her penchant for Fitzroy began rapidly to fade before 
the prospect of a coronet. His lordship had his otapho- 
ne, heard rather better than usual, and was remarkably 
agreeable ; beat time to Miss Kavanagh’s old music, and 
told anecdotes of Mara, and Storace, and Sestini. 

Lucinda at once perceived his exclusive passion for old 
music, and when Isabella rose from the pianoforte, she 
took her friend’s place at the instrument, and played 
with exquisite taste many airs from “ Artaxerxes,” “ La 
buona Figliuola,” and other ancient operas. The Mar- 
quess was enraptured ; he gazed through his glass at Lu- 
cinda, and persuaded himself that he beheld a being of 
celestial loveliness ; expressed his hope of meeting her 
again, and his anxious desire to know Colonel Nugent. 
In short, all formalities were quickly dismissed, and Lord 
Ardbraccan became as constant and assiduous a visitor in 
Merrion-street as he had previously been at Stephen’s 
Green. 

Lucinda still continued to correspond with Fitzroy; 
but her style was more platonic ; she talked more about 
literature and romance, and begged he might erase from 
his work “ that foolish panegyric on herself.” 

Lord Ardbraccan, conscious, perhaps, that he had lit- 
tle time to spare, soon overleapt the usual tedium of pre- 
liminaries, and offered his hand to Lucinda. 

Her wildest ambition was now gratified. She could 
scarcely put faith in the reality of her good fortune. She 
had not committed herself to Fitzroy, in any mode of 
which he could take legal advantage ; and, as to any 
other consideration, she was quite indifferent. A mar- 
chioness ! The offer of a coronet made, ere she yet had 
passed a month in what is called u the world !” it was 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


13 


the height of earthly happiness 1 enrapturing ! intoxi- 
cating ! all but incredible. 

She lost no time in informingthe Marquess that she 
fully responded to his sentiments, and was happy to ac- 
cept the hand with which he honored her. 

But poor Lord Ardbraccan had unfortunately for- 
gotten his otaphone on this occasion ; and remember- 
ing his awkward misapprehension of Isabella Kava- 
nagh’s answer to a similar proposition, he feared lest he 
might now fall into some mystification with Lucinda. 
Instead, therefore, of pouring forth his rapturous thanks, 
he bent forward his head in his customary attitude, and 
looking imploringly at Lucinda, said, 

“I beg pardon, Miss Nugent — 1 don't 'perfectly 
hear .” 

“ Plague take the old deaf wretch !” exclaimed Lu- 
cinda, half vexed, half diverted ; and she wrote her ac- 
ceptance of his matrimonial offers on a card, which she 
handed to him. 

His Lordship took the card with great courtesy ; 
passed it twice or thrice before his eyes, shook his head, 
and said, 

“I beg pardon, Miss Nugent — I don't perfectly 
see .” 

“Plague take the old blind wretch !” exclaimed Lu- 
cinda ; “ if he has lost the faculties of hearing and sight, 
I presume at least he cannot say ‘I don't perfectly 
feel;' so we’ll try what the medium of the touch can 
produce.” And she caught both his hands in her’s, 
and her gentle pressure of his fingers unequivocally 
told ten thousand volumes of consent. 

“ Thank you ! thank you ! thank you ! dear Lavi- 
nia !” cried the Marquess. 

“Lucinda, — Lucinda,” vociferated Miss Nugent, 
correcting him. 

“Lucinda? aye, Lucinda,” repeated the Marquess, 
catching at the half-heard sounds ; “ thanks, dearest 
girl, innumerable. For the present I must runaway, 
to speak to my lawyer about marriage settlements — ne- 
cessary things, Lucinda — hey, love ?” 

VOL. II. 2 


14 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


The Marquess hobbled away, apparently delighted ; 
and in the evening a superb trousseau of jewels arriv- 
ed, as a gift from his lordship to his bride. When we 
say that the trousseau was superb, we do not by any 
means intend to imply that the articles of bijouterie were 
numerous, but merely that the few (for they were few) 
of which it consisted, displayed exquisite taste, and were 
beautifully set. Lord Ardbraccan was poor for a Mar- 
quess, and could not afford a more extensive selection. 
— But Lucinda was delighted ; she ran to her boudoir, 
and decked herself in all the “ brilliant gauds she 
longed to exhibit her paraphernalia to some one ; to some, 
person who might envy her ; but she shrank from the 
idea of showing her finery to Isabella Kavanagh. The 
character of Isabella was well understood by Lucinda ; 
and she shrewdly surmised that the dazzling acquisition 
which, in other minds, might possibly arouse the en- 
vious feeling she desired, would, when connected with 
all its accompanying circumstances, excite in Isabella’s 
bosom sentiments of commiseration, not wholly unmix- 
ed with contempt. 

Lucinda had promised to pass a few days with some 
friends who resided about eight miles from town ; their 
carriage arrived to whirl her away, just as she had ar- 
ranged with the Marquess, through the double medium 
of his attorney and hisotaphone, that the following Sat- 
urday was to witness the solemnity of their nuptials. 
Coloael Nugent was far from approving of Lucinda’s 
acceptance of the Marquess ; however, for the sake of 
appearances, he was present at all these arrangements, 
and took an ostensible part in them. He happened, at 
this critical juncture, to leave town for the seat of a 
friend in the King’s County, with whom he had prom- 
ised to attend a steeple chase, on which heavy bets de- 
pended, and of which he had been chosen one of the 
umpires; he left his address with Lord Ardbraccan’s 
law agent. 

Lucinda passed the intervening time in receiving the 
congratulations of her acquaintance, and in practising 
the marchioness as well as she could. She received an 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


15 


epistle from Fitzroy, containing stanzas on the summer- 
house at Martagon, to be inserted in his “ Irish Sketch- 
es she revised the poetry according to his wish, and 
wrote him a voluminous letter, in which she did not 
say a single word of her approaching marriage. 

“Poor Fitzroy,” she soliloquized, “ the intelligence 
will burst upon him like a thunderclap ! the effect upon 
his mind will be stunning; 1 dare not picture to my- 
self the agony the news will inflict. Poor fellow — I 
trust in Heaven he may not shoot himself, nor drown 
himself, nor poison himself, nor any thing of that kind ; 
it would be inconceivably distressing. But he will not — 
he is too intellectual. He will seek the true balm of 
consolation, in the prosecution of his literary pro- 
jects ; and he will efface from his pages the name of 
the unhappy Lucinda ! Alas ! unhappy she may truly 
deem herself, since Fate has successively entangled her 
affections in the toils, and rudely constrained her to a 
destiny, far different from that which simple, unsophisti- 
cated happiness would have pointed out ! Yet, poor, 
poor Fitzroy ! my heart bleeds for thee — and — must 
I confess it? for Henry O’Sullivan also. Unhappy 
Lucinda ! what cruel fortune is it that compels thee 
thus to wreck thine own felicity as well as theirs ?” 

This soliloquy occupied her thoughts as she tried on 
a magnificent tiara, before her mirror, and placed the 
gorgeous ornament in half a dozen different positions, 
in order to ascertain in which it best became her; At 
length, being quite unable to arrive at a satisfactory de- 
cision without the aid of some judicious adviser, she 
summoned one of her young friends to her boudoir, 
and their joint deliberations continued until it was time 
to dress for dinner. 

The day at length arrived on which Lucinda was to 
become Lady Ardbraccan ; and at a very early hour 
she arose, like Kitty of Coleraine, from her pillow, “ all 
blushing;” and having eaten a hasty breakfast, got in- 
to the carrriage with her bridesmaid, and drove into 
Dublin, where Colonel Nugent was to meet her at St. 
George’s Church ; the sacred edifice in which it had 


16 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


been arranged that the ceremony of her marriage should 
take place. 

Her brother was in the church before she reached it. 
He greeted her affectionately, and expressed his hope 
that her approaching nuptials might add to her happi- 
ness. 

“Have you been long in town ?” she asked. 

“ No — only arrived this very instant in St. Leger’s 
carriage — traveled all night, in fact, in order that I 
might not be late — the steeple chase only came off 
yesterday — it was neck-and-neck for a mile to the 
winning post between Montague’s brown filly and Sir 
Charles’s Radagunda — I think Radagunda won by half 
a nose — it is the hardest thing in the world to satisfy 
Montague that he was beaten ; he says there was no ad- 
vantage upon either side, and claims half the plate. I 
don’t at all know how it may end ; but in the meantime 
what can keep Lord Ardbraccan ? it is not, entre nous , 
quite the thing that the bride should anticipate the bride- 
groom on such an occasion ; however the poor Mar- 
quess so old, that we must make allowances.” 

The Colonel smiled as he spoke, and Lucinda shook 
her head reproachfully. They waited a quarter of an 
hour, sitting by a fire that some one had charitably 
lighted in the vestry room, and Nugent began to exhi- 
bit tokens of impatience. Lucinda, in order to quiet 
him by giving him a subject on which he could speak 
with some interest, began to catechise him on the me- 
rits of his friend St. Leger’s kennels. 

“ Glorious ! on my honor, glorious. It is really 
worth any person’s while to travel a hundred miles in 
order to look at the harriers. The dogs are genuine 
descendants of the old Arundel breed — their ancestors 
hunted at Wardover Castle in the reign of King Wil- 
liam the Third ; and the breed, I need scarcely say, 
has been improving every generation since. And the 
fox-hound kennel is as superb as any thing of the kind 
I ever saw. Eighty couple of first rate dogs, and oh ! 
such covers as there are at Ballyskellig hill ! I never saw 
anything like it since I saw Melton Mowbray. Lucin- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 17 

da, when this Ardbraccan transaction is over, you must 
really come to St. Leger’s for a week, my dear girl — 
the whole family will be charmed to have you ; and 
you yourself, my own dear sister, have enough of 
your brother’s tastes, I know, to be charmed with the 
dogs. The Ballyskellig hounds are deservedly famed, 
you know, all over the kingdom, — and the horses — 
will you come, Lucinda ?” 

“ Most certainly, if Ardbraccan allows me.” 

“ Pooh ! Ardbraccan will allow you to do any 
thing you please. I shall send Mahony to Marta- 
gon for Brown Tom and Seraskier ; I may possibly sell 
Brown Tom to advantage there, if he shows them two 
or three days’ successful action . I think he ’s decid- 
edly a horse to make an impression ; take him altoge- 
ther, he ’s a very flashy figure, although possibly a lee - 
tie too long in the gamorells.” 

“ Fitzroy Mordaunt said his figure was perfect,” ob- 
served Lucinda. 

“ Fitzroy Mordaunt!” echoed Nugent, “what does 
that fellow know about horse-flesh ] though indeed in 
this case he wasn’t far astray.” 

“He ought to know something of the matter,” said 
Lucinda, “ being in the hussars.” 

“Yes — just as a carpenter ought to know something 
of music, because he makes a fiddle-case. Why, my 
dear, Fitzroy is hardly able to sit his horse when he 
gets on his back. He seems to me to know in gene- 
ral so very, very little of horse-flesh, that I should not 
very much marvel if I heard that he mistook a donkey 
for a racer. Mrs. Mersey appreciates him with tolera- 
ble accuracy ; she says he ’s only fit to thrum on a guitar, 
and sketch tulips and cowslips in an alburn.” 

“Mrs. Mersey’s judgment,” said Lucinda, somewhat 
piqued, “ is on this, as on many other occasions, more 
severe than just.” 

“ What, sister Lucy, are you disposed to break a 
lance for Fitz. ? In that case, the fellow may well be re- 
conciled to be assailed by Mrs. Mersey, since her sar* 
2 * 


18 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


casms arouse in his behalf such a very charming cham- 
pion. 

Lucinda acknowledged her brother’s compliment 
with a smile ; and began to feel surprised in her turn at 
the protracted absence of the bridegroom. “ It is real- 
ly strange,” said Colonel Nugent ; “ but the morning 
looked chill and unpromising.” And he rose from his 
seat, internally debating what course it was proper to 
pursue in the circumstances. Lord Ardbraccan was 
now a full hour behind time , as the mailcoachmen say, 
and still there was not the slightest appearance of his ap- 
proach. Colonel Nugent could no longer restrain his 
impatient curiosity, and he was just on the point of 
driving off to Stephen’s Green to ascertain the cause 
of the delay, when a carriage suddenly drove up to the 
church door and stopped ; a gentleman got out — it 
was not Lord Ardbraccan ; it was a tall, corpulent, 
coarse-featured pompous looking man, dressed in black, 
and with crape round his hat. He walked slowly up 
the aisle of the church, and encountering Nugent, beg- 
ged to know his name. 

“ Colonel Nugent.” 

“ Sir/’ said the man in black, slowly and solemnly, 
and pronouncing each syllable with equal weight of 
emphasis, “ I am very sorry,” and the solemn man in 
black looked steadily at Nugent, and paused. 

“ Sir,” said Nugent, after a silence of some moments, 
“I regret your sorrows; may I ask whether 1 am in 
any manner concerned in them ?” 

“ Sir,” said the solemn man, waving his hand, cc have 
patience, and you shall hear. Last night, at twelve 
o’clock, I was suddenly summoned to attend my Lord 
Ardbraccan, who was stated by the messenger to be 
dangerously ill. I repaired forthwith to his lordship’s 
residence in Stephen’s Green ” 

“ To cut ait this short, Sir,” said Colonel Nugent, 
“ is his lordship dead or alive ?” 

“ Sir, permit me, after my own fashion, to detail the 
result. I ascended to the noble patient’s dormitory, to 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


19 


which, even had I not been piloted by his Lordship’s 
valet, I could have easily discovered the way, guided by 
the melancholy sound of the catarrhal explosions that 
incessantly issued from his lordship’s larynx.” 

“ Poor man !” cried Colonel Nugent, with genuine 
military impatience breaking off from this circumstan- 
tial personage, “ if he is really so ill, I shall instantly go 
and see him.” And Nugent was speedily making for 
the vestry-room door. 

“ Stop, Sir ! stop !” exclaimed the solemn personage, 
seeing that he had not any chance of being permitted 
to indulge in a learned detail, “ stop, Sir ! he is dead.” 

“ Confound you !” cried Nugent, turning short round 
on his informant, “ why could you not tell me that at 
once ?” 

“ Because, Sir, I opined that you might, not impro- 
bably, derive some interest from a special detail ” 

“Derive the devil !” exclaimed the colonel hastily ; 
and entering the vestry-room, he informed Lucinda that 
the poor old Marquess was no more ; he had coughed 
hiihself out of the world the preceding night. 

Lucinda was extremely provoked ; she remembered 
that the Marquess had asked her to fix Friday for their 
nuptials, and she had fixed Saturday, because she did 
not think Madame Auguste, her milliner, would be 
able sooner to have some things ready w'hich she wish- 
ed to wear on the occasion. And for the sake of those 
worthless scraps of gauze and tinsel, she had actually 
lost a title ! How ineffably provoking ! 

Lucinda was silent for a few minutes, pained be- 
yond measure at her unexpected disappointment, and 
then a copious flood of tears relieved her. The tears 
were set down, of course, by the pitying spectators, 
the wound inflicted on her faithful heart by the loss of 
the object of her love ; and with all the befitting ap- 
pliances of cambric handkerchiefs, eau-de-cologne, and 
sympathising friends, she got into her carriage, and was 
driven to her brother’s house in Merrion Street. 

The first distinct reflection that occurred to her, was, 
that since the poor Marquess was fated to make such 


20 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


a sudden and unceremonious exit from this world, it 
was some consolation that he had sent her the trousseau 
of diamonds first. She started, however, as she recol- 
lected that they had been forwarded to Merrion Street 
direct from the jeweller’s ; and a qualm came over her, 
lest his lordship had omitted to pay for them, in which 
case the jeweller’s bill would not form an extremely 
agreeable study. 

Her second subject of reflection, was, the gratifying 
fact, that hitherto, at least, Fitzroy Mordaunt knew 
nothing whatever of Lord Ardbraccan’s offers ; and she 
trusted that this blissful ignorance might continue until 
Fitzroy should renew his solicitation for her hand, to 
which she mentally vowed that she would not prove in- 
exorable. 

Colonel Nugent waited in the evening upon Mrs. 
Kavanagh, and beheld all the artificers of pantomimic 
sorrow fitting up Ardbraccan House with the requisite 
trappings. The hatchment was emblazoned on the 
front; the saloons were hung with black drapery, and 
the deceased’s shrivelled relics lay “ in state,” surround- 
ed with the costly accompaniments that designate pa- 
trician woe, and that form so humiliating a contrast 
with the poor, lifeless, withered frame, from which the 
everlasting spirit hath gone forth to meet its final judg- 
ment. 

Isabella, whose heart was cast in a totally different 
mould from Miss Nugent’s, felt deeply concerned at 
Lord Ardbraccan’s death. Incapable, as she ever had 
proved herself, of connecting him with any selfish or 
degrading plans of self-advancement, she now remem- 
bered him only as a courteous and obliging friend, for 
whose flattering notice of herself she felt grateful in the 
retrospect ; and on whom she had looked with inter- 
est as the lingering relic of another age ; an age of 
which her mother and uncle retained the recollection, 
and which they had frequently described in the vivid 
and affectionate language with which narrative senility 
invariably details the scenes of its youth. 

Impressed with these high and solemn feelings, our 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


21 


heroine prevailed on her mother, unusual as such a 
proceeding might be, to accompany her to the room in 
which the body of the Marquess lay. They went at 
midnight, — a period, when they were only exposed to 
the notice of one or two domestics of his Lordship’s, 
who still watched the remains, when the idle, indiffer- 
ent, and inquisitive crowd had departed. They looked 
at the pale and stiffened face, on which, even in death, 
the same expression of courteous kindness lingered, 
that had marked it in life; the white hair w'as combed 
straight down on either side, and the hands were clasp- 
ed upon the breast. The coronet lay upon a velvet 
cushion at the coffin’s foot ; armorial blazonry was 
proudly paraded at the head. 

“ Vain, vain symbols of earthly distinction !” thought 
our heroine. “What do they avail thee now ? now , 
that thou hast appeared before that tremendous bar, 
from which the irrevocable fiat has gone forth ?” 

Tears fell from Isabella’s eyes, as she mentally offer- 
ed up an earnest prayer for the welfare of his soul. 

“ 1 believe, ladies,” said the elder attendant, “ that 
you care more for my Lord, than the hundreds that 
have been in here to-day, always excepting Colonel Nu- 
gent. The Colonel stood as good as an hour this even- 
ing looking over the coffin, and I saw his eyes wet when 
he went out.” 

“ You regret his Lordship deeply, Martin ?” said 
Mrs. Kavanagh. 

“I would be an ungrateful brute if I did not, Ma- 
dam,” replied the old man with emotion ; “ for fifty 
years I have been his servant, and a kinder, better 
master never lived — God rest his Lordship.” 


22 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


CHAPTER III. 


For woman, Jack, is woman still, 

She ’ll find a way to work her will. 

Reid’s Satires. 


“ How much do you suppose Fitzroy Mordaunt’s 
fortune may be ?” said Lucinda carelessly, one day, to 
Colonel Nugent. 

“ It was scarcely any thing, until his uncle’s death.” 

“ Oh, but now, I mean.” 

“ Probably two thousand a year. Old Grimsby was 
certainly very rich, and he has left all the Welsh estate 
to Fitzroy — But Lucy, why do you ask V 1 

“ Simply, because I take some interest, as I suppose 
every one does, in hearing the amount of the good or 
the evil that may befal my acquaintance.” 

“ Have you any more personal reason for your pre- 
sent inquiry?” said Nugent, bending his eyes with keen 
earnestness upon his sister. 

“ What should lead you to suppose that I have ?” 

“ Oh, Lucy, do not think I am so very unobservant 
— you cannot imagine that all the guitarings, and duett- 
ings, and sonnets, and literary intercourse at Martagon 
escaped me?” 

Lucinda blushed deeply. 

“ Nay, it is not any blushing matter either,” said her 
brother good naturedly — “ the fact is, I did not very 
much care then, for I thought that those Mordaunts were 
highly principled and honorable men, although I always 
deemed Fitzroy a learned donkey. But now that Miss 
Kavanagh has made the elder Mordaunt’s infamous 
conduct to herself a matter of public notoriety, I ram 
of opinion that the less we have to say to the family 
the better. I had always looked on Mordaunt as ra- 
ther the better of the two, and if he be the best ” 

“ But surely, brother,” interposed Lucinda, “ you 
would not condemn Fitzroy for his brother’s miscon- 
duct? I am certain he censures it as strongly as you 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


23 


or I could ! And then he is so amiable, too. You 
surely don’t forget how he exposed himself to danger, 
and actually dislocated his arm, in assisting a poor old 
woman ?” 

“ Why, as to that,” replied Nugent, “he could give 
us what version he thought proper, of the history of 
his wounds and bruises — his account of the matter may 
possibly be somewhat apocryphal.” 

“ What, brother — do you doubt his word ?” 

“ In truth, Lucy, I confess that I have not any infor- 
mation on the subject that affords me grounds for de- 
nying his statement. Yet I never perceived such an 
ardent inclination on the part of our friend, to assist 
the poor, feeble, and helpless, as would render it proba- 
ble that he should put himself to any great trouble 
about an old basket woman. In short, I neither believe 
nor disbelieve his story ; it may be true or false, for 
aught I know ; his assertion is quite insufficient to re- 
move my doubts, at all events.” 

“ Well, I place more confidence in Fitz. than you 
do,” was Lucinda’s answer. 

“To be candid with you, Lucy, all this seems very 
strange. It is not a fortnight since you were ready to 
swear at the altar that you would £ love, honor, and obey’ 
poor old Lord Ardbraccan. Since his death you have 
not met this fascinating military hero ; so that your pre- 
sent warmth in his favor must be part of a pre-existing 
flame. Now, how could you reconcile your attach- 
ment to Fitzroy, with your readiness to enter into wed- 
lock with the Marquess ? You compel me to ask you 
a plain question, and I now require a plain answer.” 

Lucinda, thus taken to task, was seriously perplexed. 
She had trusted too much to her brother’s exclusive 
attention to field-sports, and had fondly persuaded her- 
self that much of her manoeuvring had escaped his ob- 
servation. 

“ Brother,” she answered at length, “ you are cruel — 
very cruel. My conduct towards you has been mark- 
ed with most scrupulous delicacy. I never have ut- 
tered, nor would I now utter, unless compelled by 


24 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


your unfeeling bluntness, a single word that could 
lead you to discover the fact, that in doing gross vio- 
lence to the warm prepossessions of my heart, I was 
actuated simply by a wish to form such a connexion as 
might aggrandise your house, and reflect distinction on 
yourself. Yes, Sir. For your sake alone would I 
ever have consented to unite myself to Lord Ardbrac- 
can ; and the grateful reward that I am tendered, is a 
coarse and violent assault upon those feelings of femi- 
nine delicacy, which our sex holds most sacred.” And 
Lucinda put her handkerchief to her eyes, and began 
to sob convulsively. 

Colonel Nugent was by no means a fool; but he 
was blinded by a partial and passionate attachment to 
his sister, and he was not a match for her in artifice ; 
of which, indeed, there was not a shadow in the hon- 
est frankness of his character. He could not bear.to 
see Lucinda weep; he cursed himself as an unfeeling 
wretch for having given her pain ; and affectionately 
throwing his arms round her neck, he acknowledged 
his fault , and earnestly besought her to forgive her 
offending, but penitent brother. Lucinda, delighted 
at having thus adroitly put Nugent in the wrong, with- 
drew her handkerchief from her beautiful eyes, still 
moistened with tears, and cast on him a glance of in- 
comparably blended magnanimity and forgiveness; 
such a glance as an insulted angel might bestow on a 
presumptuous mortal, who solicited pardon for having 
outraged the sacred dignity of the celestial personage. 

A day or two afterwards, Fitzroy arrived, and repeat- 
ed the offer of his hand. Lucinda consented to confer 
felicity upon her lover, provided Colonel Nugent’s con- 
currence could be also obtained ; and /ie, good, easy 
man ! desirous above all things that his sister should be 
happy, offered no objection to the marriage ; which ac- 
cordingly was celebrated with considerable splendor and 
eclat. 

The customary compliments were made the bride by 
all her acquaintance, except Isabella. 

“The worst of this marriage is,” observed Nugent, 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


25 


<l that it will create some coolness with the Kavanaghs, 
who are really worth all the rest of our acquaintance ; 
especially the old fellow and Miss Kavanagh. But that 
shan’t be, if I can help it. I must necessarily know 
Fitzroy for your sake, Lucy : but I vow I’ll never al- 
low his brother to enter my house, and I shall tell the 
Kavanaghs so. So if this arrangement will induce Isa- 
bella to come see us, I shall think we are very fortu- 
nate. n 

And Nugent left the room, in order to visit his friends 
in Stephen’s Green. 

“ Come back for one instant, brother,” said Mrs. 
Fitzroy Mordaunt ; “ 1 only wish to ask you,” she add- 
ed, looking archly, “ if you have any idea of present- 
ing me with a sister-in-law in the person of our dear 
Isabella ? Nay, if you blush, I have done ; do not 
scold me however for making you blush, for you know 
1 owed you this revenge. — Go now — I have asked my 
question, and I don’t wish to teaze you any longer.” 

Colonel Nugent departed, looking conscious enough : 
however he tried to turn off his embarrassment with a 
laugh. 


5~ 


CHAPTER IV. 

Philaster, too, plays fast and loose, 

He only wanted an excuse. 

Reid’s Satires. 

u A weary world this !” exclaimed Father John 
O’Connor, throwing himself upon a chair with an ap- 
pearance of fatigue, one evening late, when he had just 
returned from a station. 

“ Weary enough ! weary enough, your reverence,” 
echoed the parochial schoolmaster, wiio had seated 
himself on the opposite side of the fire-place ; “ and 

YOL. II. 3 


26 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER, 


how does your reverence think it will fare with the poor 
cratures of tinants ?” 

O’Connor shook his head. “ Badly, I am afraid,” he 
replied. “ Notice to quit has been served on the Bal- 
lymackavawn boys, for all the leases of the plough-land 
expire in September next. I ’m afraid there will be 
great clearing out on the estate. The drivers have 
gone round on all the Killaderry fellows too, and have 
threatened every mother’s son of them all with eject- 
ment, if the hanging gale is not paid up along with the 
current half year by Lady day.” 

“ Weirastrua ! weirastrua !” cried the schoolmaster, 
u ; and how will it fare with Jerry Howlaghan V 9 

I have great fears for Jerry,” answered the priest ; 
“ for he owes a whole twelvemonth’s rent. He recent- 
ly has laid out a good deal in improving the house and 
farm, under a sort of half-promise from the agent that 
the amount would be allowed him in the rent; and the 
agent recedes from his promise, as I understand, and 
says Jerry must pay every farthing of the rent, unless 
he can produce a written promise , (which we all know 
never had any existence). Ah, I warned Jerry against 
trusting Mr. Wrench or his promises ; but he said he 
thought he might confide in him.” 

To the ears of an Englishman, there does not seem 
any thing unjust or tyrannical in the sound of “ evic- 
tion for non-payment of rent;” and yet, in point of fact, 
few processes of oppression can well be conceived 
more truly tyrannical than this often is in Ireland. The 
reason is, that more is demanded for the ground in ma- 
ny cases, than the soil is able, with the farmer’s utmost 
industry, to pay : so that, in all such instances, to eject 
a man because he does not pay the rack-rent, is to 
punish him for the non-performance of an impossibility. 
It may be asked, why does the tenant undertake to 
pay a higher rent than the land is actually worth ? The 
answer is a simple one — Necessity compels him. In a 
country almost wholly destitute of manufactures, the 
population are necessarily thrown for their support up- 
on the soil. There is no mode of raising a livelihood 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


27 


unless it is worked out of the ground. This state of 
things inevitably creates a prodigious competition for 
land ; the natural consequence of which competition, 
is to raise the rents to a pitch quite exorbitant. Thus 
the landlords hold the existence of their tenants on 
their breath ; and thus it happens that when the depo- 
pulating system is resorted to by landlords, whether 
for political or other reasons, the instincts of nature ir- 
resistibly impel the houseless, the ejected, the destitute 
victims, to the commission of outrages, of which in a 
more favorable state of society they would be wholly 
incapable. 

A landlord, it is argued, has a natural and legal right 
to expel from his grounds any tenant whose lease has 
expired, on the broad, undeniable principle that a man 
may do just as he likes with his own. But it should be 
recollected that the exercise of natural as well as legal 
rights, ought always to be modified by the requirements 
of 'society. A corn merchant, for example, in a time 
of scarcity, has undoubtedly a natural and legal right 
to say to the famishing applicants for food, “ you shall 
not have my corn for your money — go elsewhere. The 
corn is mine, and I refuse to sell it — 1 have a right to 
do just as 1 please with my own .” That the heart- 
less corn merchant, in the case supposed, would act in 
strict accordance with his natural and legal rights is 
unquestionably true : but how would his conduct ap- 
pear, when tested by the dictates of humanity, of the 
social relations between man and his brother, — or when 
tested by the still more authoritative precepts of the 
Gospel ? 

The advocates, therefore, of Irish depopulating land- 
lords, would do extremely well to recollect, that to say 
that a man in any given case only exercises his legal 
and natural rights, may nevertheless be an exceedingly 
inadequate justification of his conduct. The reasona- 
ble social requirements of his fellow beings should also 
be weighed. Hundreds should not be consigned to des- 
titution, to gratify the avaricious cravings, or to humor 
the political predilections of one. 


28 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


Lord Bally vallin’s tenants had, almost without any 
exception, voted at the county election against the can- 
didate for whom his lordship felt interested ; and he ac- 
cordingly determined to visit with his vengeance all the 
serfs who had dared to commit the unpardonable crime 
of expressing a political conviction at variance with that 
of their landlord. To these fiery purposes of retribu- 
tion his lordship was ardently stimulated by his agent, 
Mr. Wrench ; who on one or two occasions had taunt- 
ingly threatened our acquaintance, Jerry Howlaghan, 
with the punishment that awaited his political sins. 

“ Sure, Sir,” said Jerry, throwing himself into his us- 
ual fearless attitude of free expostulation, “ your honor 
does not tell me you ’re in earnest ?” 

“ Not in earnest V* repeated the agent ; “ faith I am, 
so ; as you, Jerry Howlaghan, will find to your cost if 
you don’t make submission.” 

“ Now that ’s what I call entirely too hard, your hon- 
or. I dig the lord’s ground, I plough it, I sow it, I reap 
the corn, thrash the grain and bring it to the mill, all 
with the labor of my bones and the sweat of my brow 
— I fatten pigs, I raise praties — I ’m up early and down 
late, watching fairs and markets in all weathers — I 
sometimes comes home, Heaven knows, down hearted 
enough when the prices are low or the demand slack, 
fagged and wearied, and frozen with the cold, mayhap, 
or wet to the shkin. Well, the money that I make, 
be it great, or be it small, is all paid to your honor for 
my lord ; and tight screwing and squeezing we often 
have to make it out, as no man knows better than your 
honor’s honor. I freely give my lord the labor of my 
limbs and the sweat of my brow — because why ? be- 
cause his lordship has a right to it ; because I promised 
him the rint, and because, plase God, I ’ll always pay 
what I promised him so far forth as God enables me. 
But I never promised him my vote. To be sure, he 
has every right in life to ax for it ; and I have also every 
right in life not to give it to him, if I don’t plase. And 
I do not plase, Mr. Wrench, and what is more I ’ll nev- 
er plase, unless his lordship should give his support to 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


29 


some mimber that would be likely in my humble opin- 
ion to sarve Ireland. If his lordship took a candidate 
of that sort by the hand, why, ’pon my conscience I ’d 
give him my vote against the priest himself, hut not 
otherwise . — And now, Mr. Wrench, after working and 
slaving to make out the rint, pray what great things 
have I left for myself? I ’ve got praties and milk, God 
be praised ! and many, many farmers haven’t got the 
milk : so I ought to be thankful, and I am. I have good 
corned beef too, to ate, at Christmas and Easter and 
Whitsuntide; for which I also heartily thank God and 
his lordship. I have those blessings, and the clothes I 
wear, and the clothes that Nancy wears, and the house 
that covers us. — Our clothes are no great things, to be 
sure ; but better wouldn’t suit the like of huz. I J m not 
complaining, mind. I only want to show your honor, 
that my lord gets at laste five sixths of the value of the 
land, if the praties, and the clothes, and the house be de- 
ducted ; and those , you know, we couldn’t live with- 
out. Now I think five-sixths of value may very well 
satisfy his honorable lordship, without axing for my 
vote, or punishing me for giving it to a mimber that he 
doesn’t like. And what thinks yourself, Mr. Wrench ?” 
pursued Jerry, a smile of humorous intelligence playing 
in his fine dark eye ; “ spake out now, plase your honor.” 

“ I think you ’ve a damned deal of impudence,” an- 
swered the agent; “'and I just held my tongue, and 
heard you out, to try the length to which your impu- 
dence would carry you. It would be fitter for the like 
of you to recollect that you owe a twelvemonth’s rent, 
and to come and hand it tome, than to give me all that 
jaw.” 

“Mr. Wrench — Mr. Wrench — I wonder at you, Sir. 
Doesn’t your honor recollect that you promised his 
lordship would make an allowance for all the improve- 
ments I made? Was there a hole or corner of the 
roof that could keep out the rain, and isn’t it illigantly 
covered in now ? Just look at the wall built round the 
haggard, and dashed all over with lime mortar, and a 
course of lime along the middle, and another course fo? 

a* 


30 


TIIE IIUSBAND-HUNTER. 


coping? Look at the new stable and stalls, and the 
new cow-house and the bails (only all the bails aren’t 
quite completed yet). Look at the new gate and the 
fine pair of piers beyant the bohereen, and how was I 
to build all those things without the allowance that your 
honor promised me?” 

“ And don’t you recollect,” retorted Mr. Wrench, 
“ that my promise was made on the condition that you 
would be a well-conducted and obedient tenant ; and I 
don't think you ’ll call it good conduct or obedience to re- 
fuse to vote for Mr. Beresford, when his lordship and my- 
self would almost put our eyes upon sticks to coax you.” 

Jerry was quite silent. He saw that Mr. Wrench 
was determined, upon any pretence, to carry out his 
purposes of vengeance, and that further expostulation 
would be utterly useless. 

“ So now you ’ll remember,” continued the agent, 
“ that if you don’t pay up the full arrears before Lady- 
Day, and the gale then falling due within fifteen days 
after, you ’ll be served with a notice to quit — that ’s all. 
So don’t pretend that I didn’t give you warning.” 

And, thus saying, the agent departed, leaving Jerry, 
as the reader may easily imagine, in rather an unenvi- 
able state of mind. He feR his spirit broken and his 
arm unnerved for labor, as he gazed on his recent im- 
provements, the pride of his heart and of Nancy’s ; 
the new cowhouse and stable, the new haggard wall, 
and all the other alterations. “ And to think,” ex- 
claimed he, “ that I should be doing all this 5 for ano- 
ther ! slaving, and laboring, drawing stones and mix- 
ing mortar, and all for Heaven know r s who, and to have 
no benefit, at all at all, myself! Och, Nancy, Nancy 
isn’t it a hard, hard case ? isn’t it, Nancy, jewel ?” 

Nancy turned a glance of affectionate sympathy up- 
on her brother ; such a look, as even under all his dif- 
ficulties, might well compel him to lift up his heart to 
God in thankfulness, for bestowing on him such a 
sister. 

It is in the hour of distress that the sweet and tender 
endearments of family love are most soothingly called 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


31 


forth. Nancy had constantly worked for him, and urg- 
ed him to moral amendment and habits of industry, 
and he loved her, certainly, as such a sister merited. 
But never had he felt such a warm glow of passionate 
attachment for her as he did at this moment of impend- 
ing adversity, when her soft, dark eyes, smiled kind- 
ly and encouragingly on him ; their affectionate gaze 
expressed, in a language more eloquent than words, 

“ Go where you will — let what misfortunes happen 
you that may, dear Jerry, your own Nancy will go 
with you — she will ever be, as she has been in better 
times, your true and faithful sister.’’ 

He tenderly embraced her, saying, “ Whatever it 
may plase God to take from me, Nancy dear, so long 
as you are left me, I won’t be entirely destitute.” 

“ Maybe,” said she, “ if you were to go to my Lord, 
and state your case to himself, he might shew you 
more mercy than this rogue of an agent. To do his 
lordship justice, he is only half an absentee : and the 
half of his time that he spends at Knockanea, he gives 
a deal of charity to some of the ould followers that’s 
past their labor ; so you see there is a soft vein some- 
where in his lordship. Now, if your honest downright 
talk don’t hit that vein, why there ’s nothing in the 
world that can doit. I’d advise you to try, Jerry ; 
there ’s no harm at any rate in trying ; and good may 
come of it for aught we know.” 

“ I ’ll take your advice, Nancy astlvore ; I never took 
it yet that I wasn’t the better for it. And I haven’t a 
doubt but it ’s Wrench, and them like him, that ’s spur- 
ring up my lord to this cruelty, in order to get his share 
of the glove-money from a new batch of tinants when 
we are turned out.” 

Jerry, accordingly, donned his Sunday suit, and turn J 
ed his steps with all possible despatch towards Knocka- 
nea. On arriving at the house, he turned into the 
court, where one of the first persons whom he saw, was 
Prince Gruffenhausen, who had returned on the pre- 
ceding day from Dublin, and was now inspecting some 
injury his vrowtehsk had sustained from the long and 


32 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


very rapid journey. Albeit, our friend Jerry was not 
particularly superstitious, yet the sight of the Serene 
Fatalist smote his heart, as though it were of evil au- 
gury. 

“The curse of the crows light down upon the hairy 
ould cock,” thought he ; “ and sure it cannot be for 
any?good luck that the cross-grained, cantankrous ould 
chap is the first that meets my eye-sight in his Lord- 
ship’s premises.” And Jerry was passing on to an op- 
posite door, to make his inquiries of his friend the stew- 
ard, respecting the practicability of obtaining an audi- 
ence of “ the Lord.” 

But as he passed the Fatalist, that serene personage 
angrily scowled at him, at the same time desiring Hoff- 
mann Achloss, one of his German attendants, to detain 
him forcibly. The huge, impassable Bavarian, who 
knew no other law than the mandates of his Prince, 
immediately obeyed ; and so suddenly, that Jerry’s el- 
bows were both pinioned from behind in Hoffman’s iron 
grasp, before he had a moment to prepare for resist- 
ance. 

“ Hah, mein merry cock !” exclaimed Prince Gruff- 
enhausen, “ mein shicken of de game ! You vould 
haf got dis usages long time ago, only dat you vanish 
like de puff of wind, and I did not nefer know where I 
could viud you. Ach ! if I had you in mein country ! 
Baf ! you should know vat mighty ghrime a wretched 
scoundrels of a peasant do commit, dat assault a noble 
Prince of de Serene House of Krunks Doukerstein. 
Hold him tight, mein honest Hoffman. Squeeze der 
scoundrels hard — like der Bleyzug* — Ach ! Hoffman ! 
pinch his elbows harder — harder ! like der Schraub- 
stock* — dat is it. Ach ! mein ruffians ! if I had you 
in mein fortress of Schloss Doukerstein, — mein wort, 
but you vould learn a lesson dat might gif you some 
improvements. Mein himmel ! I vould put you in die 
folter\> where you vould be slash vid whibs, till de 
schellum flesh vould fly in flakes from your sgoundrel 

* Both these words signify a smith’s vice 

| DUfolter , the rack, the torture.. 


THE HUSBANO-HUNTER. 


33 


cargase. Sgueeze him, Hoffmann Achloss — Ach ! but 
you do not gripe him hard enough. I haf to tell you, 
mein merry shicken, dat now dat I haf got you, I vil 
schwear der law against you. And den we shall see 
fot punishments a schelm peasants do deserve for strik- 
ing a prince of de empire. Pofe !” 

All this while Jerry had been vigorously struggling to 
get free, but he had been seized at a disadvantage, and 
the strength of his Bavarian captor was prodigious. 
At last, however, he kicked Hoffman Achloss in the 
shin with the iron heel of his shoe, which made Hoff- 
man roar with pain, and withdraw a hand from one of 
Jerry’s elbows, to rub the injured part. Jerry availed 
himself of this diversion to break from the Bavarian, 
and darting past Gruffenhausen, who made an ineffec- 
tual attempt to seize him, he safely ensconced himself 
within the steward’s door on the opposite side of the 
quadrangle. Hoffman pursued him, but ere he reach- 
ed the door, Jerry slapped it in his face. 

“ What is all this ?” demanded Mrs. Mersey, who at 
this moment entered the court to give her opinion on 
the state of the Fatalist’s vrowtchsk. His Highness re- 
plied to her inquiry by stating the offence, which he rep- 
resented as a violent assault on his person, of which Jerry 
had been guilty on the day of the excursion to Glen 
Minnis. Mrs. Mersey considered the story as related 
by the Prince, _an extremely improbable one ; and sum- 
moning forth Jerry, whom she often had met on her 
solitary rambles, she requested to hear his version of 
the rencontre. He told his tale with the easy unem- 
barrassed air of truth, interspersed with certain irre- 
pressible out-breaks of humor when describing the im- 
pression the Fatalist’s foreign appearance had made up- 
on his mind when suddenly seen, for the first time, be- 
neath the old castle ; and ended by very strongly de- 
precating the violent usage he had just received from 
Hoffman Achloss, “ who caught me like a coward,” 
said he, “ behind my back, though I hardly think he’d 
face a steady match of alpeens wid me.” 

Mrs. Mersey, whom Jerry’s very handsome, although 


34 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


somewhat farouche exterior strongly interested in his 
favor, undertook to dissuade Prince Gruffenhausen from 
his purposes of seeking legal vengeance. She assured 
him that in the first place he would not act en philoso - 
phe by engagingin a lawsuit of any kind. Why should 
Jerry Howlaghan be punished for a sudden concussion 
which had clearly been preordained by all-controlling 
destiny? and why should his Highness, in direct con- 
travention of his principles, hold Jerry accountable for 
a manifest decree of Das Schiksall In the second 
place, his Highness was wholly unacquainted with the 
laws of this country, which unfortunately did not in 
every particular assimilate with the admirable code of 
Krunks-Doukerstein ; and on this head, she begged to 
assure him, that if he brought his accusation before 
even the most partial magistrate, the result would at 
best be very doubtful; whereas if Jerry Howlaghan 
were tempted to retaliate, by arraigning Hoffman Ach- 
loss and his princely master, for the violent assault just 
committed on his person by the former, acting under 
orders of his Highness, there could not be a doubt but 
that exemplary punishment would be visited on the 
defendants. She was sorry her convictions compelled 
her to say it, — but she did feel convinced that it was 
not his Serene Highness’s Schiksal to prosecute Jer- 
ry Howlaghan with the most distant prospect of success. 

The Fatalist was influenced by Mrs. Mersey’s judi- 
cious and well-timed interference, and uttering a sullen, 
discontented “ Pofe !” he resumed his inspection of the 
vrowtchsk with the aid of the widow and Hoffman ; 
and Jerry, blessing Mrs. Mersey, re-entered the house 
without further molestation. But here he was doomed 
to experience another disappointment. Lord Baliyval- 
lin was confined to his bed with a violent fit of the gout, 
and was so irascibly sensitive on the subject of the re- 
cent election, that the very name of either of the candi- 
dates threw him into fits. An audience, under such 
circumstances, was totally out of the question ; and 
Jerry returned to his home with a very heavy heart, — 
uncertain how long fate might permit him to call it his 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


85 


home. On his way, an acquaintance mentioned a re- 
port that an Orange palatine named Schofield, had re- 
ceived a promise of Jerry’s farm from Wrench. This 
intelligence gave Jerry an object on which to concen- 
trate his feelings of rage and desperation. 

“ Schofield ! och, I wouldn’t doubt him. The dirty 
circumventing scoundrel. But so sure as 1 'm a living 
man,” muttered Howlaghan, with his teeth clenched 
and his eyes flashing rage, “ and so sure as that ruffen 
plots wid Wrench to ruin me and Nancy, and break us 
out of house and home, and send us adrift upon the 
world, that he may sit down by the fire-side I’ve built, 
and enjoy the profits of my hard labor — so sure as 
Schofield plays me such a trick , — so sure I’ll make 
him feel it.” 

And the unfortunate young man flung himself down 
on the nearest chair, on entering his house, and folded 
his arms with a feeling of stupified despair. Nancy, 
who had heard his muttered threats, approached him, 
saying mildly, 

“ Do not threaten, Jerry dear. Trust in God. Did 
you not say this very morning, happen what misfortune 
might, you ’d never feel destitute entirely, so long as 1 
was left you ? Jerry ! my own Jerry — it goes to my 
heart to see you downcast this way, — and if the worst 
should happen us, and if we are turned out of the farm 
itself, sure haven’t we the hands and the health and 
the strength that God gave us ; and can ’t we go, as 
thousands of the likes of us are going every day, to 
America ? and can ’t we live, and work, and earn riches 
too, in that free happy country ? But Jerry,” she add- 
ed in a low and shuddering whisper, “ for the Lord Al- 
mighty’s sake, don’t threaten Schofield, even in your 
very thoughts. Oh, Jerry dear, I know the evil of your 
timper — I know the danger of your angry blood. For 
God’s sake, keep it down, — keep the timptations of the 
devil far from you ; keep far away from blood. Re- 
mimber God’s command ; and next to that, remimber 
that you would not wish to make our ould father, nor 
your brothers, nor Kitty, nor your own loving Nancy, 


36 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER, 


the most unhappy cratures that ever throubled the face 
of the earth.” 

Jerry started up from an apparent state of stupor, 
spoke not a word, and as if he felt desirous to conquer 
by bodily labor some terrible internal emotion, took a 
spade, and continued to dig with violent exertion until 
night-fall. He then re-entered the house, swallowed 
in sullen silence the supper that Nancy had prepared 
for him, and abruptly quitting the table went to bed. 

“ Jerry,” said his sister following him, “you did not 
say your prayers.” 

“ Can ’t you lave me to my thoughts ?” he answered 
roughly. 

“No, dear,” responded Nancy in a whisper, sinking 
down upon his pillow, “ because I ’m afeard they are 
bad thoughts. Oh, Jerry, is God to be forgotten by 
us ? Let me see you rise, aghra, and say your prayers, 
before you go to sleep.” 

Jerry was for a moment silent, and' then, apparently 
mollified by Nancy’s appeal, he replied, “ I ’ll rise and 
kneel, if you Ml say out the prayers.” 

He accordingly rose, and speedily dressing himself, 
knelt, while his sister also knelt, and repeated in her 
native Irish the prayers she had learned to address to 
her Maker, with a fervid piety of utterance that melted 
Jerry’s stubbornness ; for when she had concluded, he 
answered “ Amen,” and sighed with a feeling of relief 
from half the load that weighed upon his heart. 

“ Kiss me, now, before you go to bed.” 

“ Kiss you, my own dear sister ? May God bless you, 
and give me the grace to be guided by you. I ’m sure 
you 5 re like a guardian angel to me, Nancy.” 

While such was the state of affairs in Jerry’s home, 
the cottage of his father, old Murtough Howlaghan, 
who, as our readers may remember, occupied the sea- 
coast farm, was the scene of events, which, although 
intrinsically unimportant, we nevertheless think proper 
to detail, as furnishing a characteristic trait of Ireland. 
Old Murtough, never having been able distinctly to as- 
certain that he received any value from the Protestant 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


3? 

Rector of the parish, had refused him the wages called 
tithes ; in consequence of which refusal the Rector had 
sued Murtough in the Court of Exchequer, and obtain- 
ed a writ against his person. 

The execution of this writ was a matter of consider- 
able difficulty, for Murtough and his sons were very 
wary, and kept the house door constantly shut, from 
sunrise to sunset ; while little boys were stationed all 
day on the neighboring ditches to give notice of any 
hostile approaches. 

It chanced, then, on this memorable evening, that a 
little bacaugh, or lame beggar, known as Shaneen-na-t- 
Iask, or Jacky Fish, the Orange cripple (for the badges 
of party are worn by mendicants), knocked after sun- 
down at the door of Murtough Howlaghan, and solicit- 
ed his supper and night’s lodging. 

“ Thar asteach — thar asteach, agus faille ; se sheis 
nackin tinna ; — go de’n skeal nho aguth*?” — Such 
were the words of welcome addressed to Jacky Fish by 
the inmates, and accordingly he entered, saying, " Save* 
all here,” and took his seat by the chimney corner. 

“ Well, Shaneen-na-t-Iask, what news have you 
brought us from the fair ?” 

“ No great things, Mr. Howlaghan, in troth; only 
indeed that Shaucussheen the magistrate was swearing 
there would soon be an end to the world, because he 
saw the priest and the parson shaking hands.” 

“ Ho ! ho ! ho ! upon my honor (as the quality say), 
that was the comical shake hands indeed. Faith the 
parson shakes other things besides folks’ hands — he 
shakes the money in our purses too — It ’s a folly to 
talk, Shaneen-na-t-Iask, but your ministhers flog all the 
boys in the world for knowing how to make the coppers 
dance.” 

“ Why now, Mr. Howlaghan/’ retorted the cripple, 
u I ’m sure you can’t deny but the priests are some- 
times pretty reasonable hands at spinning up the cop- 
pers too. There’s Father Darby Callaghan, sure — 
what is he ?” 

* Come in, come in, and welcome ; sit down near the fire, what news have 
yon got? 

VOL. II. 4 


38 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTKfc. 


“ He’s a money-loving miser,” answered Howlaghan, 
“and by the same token the parishioners nailed up his 
chapel door and hunted him out of the parish. They ’ve 
got a very proper clargyman from the bishop now. But 
even if Callaghan was a griping screw, he was the peo- 
ple’s priest ; and you know there ’s all the differ in life be- 
tween a man who charges too high for christening their 
children, and marrying their couples, and churching 
their women, and a man who knocks mountains of mo- 
ney from the cratures for doing nothing at all, good, 
bad, or indifferent.” 

“ True, true, Mr. Howlaghan,” said Shaneen-na-t- 
lask ; “ but as far as the report goes, you've got no 
rason to complain — you’ve bothered the minister en- 
tirely, haven’t you ?” 

“ Not quite entirely ; for you know I ’ve to deal wid 
two ministers ; and Mr. Hickson had the army out 
three or four times to thry what he could catch, and 
the last day they came, the king’s troops seized on 
seven turkeys that Kitty forgot to put to hide in the 
house.” 

“ Och,” rejoined Shaneen-na-t-Iask, “ if you lost no 
more than seven turkeys, you may fairly say you ’ve 
bothered the minister. But that isn’t what I mean — I 
mean that now the writ is out against your body, Mr. 
Howlaghan, at the suit of Parson Gregg, you ’ve kept 
close house so tight and cute that he never yet was able 
to sarve it on you. You ’ve bothered Mr. Gregg, at 
any rate.” 

“ I hope so, I hope so,” said Howlaghan, rubbing 
his hands over the gewsh fire, “ but here ’s our supper, 
God be thanked for it ; fall to work at the praties, 
Shaneen, agus mille failthe ; and we ’ll try to forget 
ministers for a while, if we can.” 

And immediately the whole party set to work with 
keen appetites. 

The hours advanced, the family retired to rest, and 
Shaneen-na-t-Iask was accommodated with a layer of 
straw in a corner. 

Towards dawn, the wary old farmer heard a noise 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


39 


that made him start up in his bed, exclaiming, “ Paddy 
— Barney! did ye hear that, boys? Where’s Sha- 
neen-na-t-Iask ?” 

“It was only myself,” replied Shaneen, “ I was try- 
ing to coax this rogue of a game-cock not to be crow- 
in’, the noisy blackguard ! and wakenin’ up the house 
afore it ’s time.” 

“Never mind the cock, Shaneen — you make more 
noise yourself.” And the farmer relapsed into repose. 
But ere many minutes had passed, his wakeful ears 
were again disturbed by a repetition of the sounds that 
had before aroused him. He stealthily rose, and 
creeping to the house-door, found the little Orange 
cripple undoing the bolt. 

“ Bad luck to you, you ill-conditioned little ruffen,” 
he exclaimed, “go lie down upon your bed till it’s 
time to go out. How do any of us know who may be 
watching outside to rush in ? Why, you cross-grained, 
cross-boned little devil, it was only last week that six 
of parson Gregg’s men were hiding in my pigstye be- 
fore sunrise, on the watch to burst in at my door with 
the writ, as soon as any of the boys would open it. 
By the piper that played before Moses, I ’ll never give 
you bite nor sup, nor a sop of straw to lie on, for the 
longest day I have to live again, if you don’t lie quiet 
there. But the likes of you are always unaisy, and long- 
ing for shifting and changing from one place to another 
— it’s dangerous to let yez into a man’s house.” 

Shaneen-na-t-Iask, thus admonished, returned to his 
lair, and lay tolerably quiet for a quarter of an hour. 
The household then began to stir. “ Get up, boys and 
girls,” said old Howlaghan, “ it’s time for yez — and let 
Padhreen beg pop his head out of the chimney afore 
the fire is lit, to see if any of the parson’s men are on 
the watch outside. Will you wait for your breakfast, 
Shaneen-na-t-Iask ? if you do, you ’re welcome to it, 
and if you don’t, say so, and when Padhreen beg sees 
that the coast is clear, we can let you out and clap the 
door after you.” 

Padhreen beg now descended the chimney, to report 


40 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


that he had seen the hats of six or seven men on the 
other side of the hedge, and he concluded that the 
heads of the wearers were plotting an incursion. 

“ Are there any of them near the door ?” asked How- 
laghan. 

“No,” replied the boy, “sorrow one.” 

“ Will you wait for breakfast or go home, Mr. Fidg- 
et V 9 said Howlaghan. 

“ I Ml go — I Ml go, and the cripple’s prayers and 
thanks to you for your goodness to me always, Mr. 
Howlaghan ; 1 Ml get my breakfast from ould Mrs. De- 
laney, to-day; so my blessing wid this house and all 
that ’s in it, and good luck and good morning to yez 
all.” 

The state of the premises in front was again recon- 
noitred by Padhreen beg ; and as he reported that the 
men without still occupied their former position, the 
door was for an instant opened, the bacaugh dismiss- 
ed, and immediately all was fastened up again. 

“ Keep your eye on Shaneen-na-t-Iask, Padhreen,” 
said Barney, “and watch where he goes.” 

“Sure you wouldn’t misdoubt that crature?” said 
old Howlaghan. 

“ Faix, I don’t know,” answered Barney ; “ it ’s hard 
to trust them little Oranges; he’s soft and slippery 
enough when he has anything to gbt.” 

“ Poor little dhunnas,” said old Howlaghan, “ I think 
he’s an honest little crature — I don’t misdoubt him, 
any how, I know.” 

Meanwhile Padhreen beg, with his head concealed 
in a large broken chimney-pot, surveyed from the top 
of the chimney the motions of the cripple, who moved, 
with the aid of his crutch, at a very expeditious rate 
along the bohereen, or lane, that led from the farmer’s 
house to the coast-road. He did not seem to hold any 
communication, by either word or sign, with the emis- 
saries of the Rev. Mr. Gregg, who lurked without ; in- 
deed it is probable they did not see his exit from Hovv- 
laghan’s house, as he instantly proceeded in an oppo- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


41 


site direction from the side of the premises where they 
were stationed. But when another half hour had pass- 
ed, and when some of them moved round to see what 
chance of surprising the garrison existed, they at once 
perceived that the case was, for that day, hopeless; 
as Paddy and Barney were quietly digging in the 
bawn, and the door of the house was closely shut. 

The rector’s troops accordingly decamped, taking 
the direction the cripple had taken before them ; and 
Padhreenbeg, who still kept watch at the chimney-top, 
saw that Shaneen-na-t-Iask was sitting on a stone at 
the end of the bohereen. He rose when the rector’s 
party reached him, and limped along in their company. 
A brother of Padhreen’s, who was out cutting furze to 
feed the horses, overheard from the ditch-side the fol- 
lowing dialogue. 

“ And is it there I see you, Jacky?” quoth one of 
the party to the cripple ; <c we ’ve been watching these 
two hours to see if you ’d open the door, and we walk- 
ed three times round the house, as if we were treading 
upon eggs. Corney Egan knew the dogs and kept ’em 
quiet. Why, upon airth, Shaneen-na-t-Iask, didn’t 
you up and let us in ?” 

“ Why, how the devil could 1 ?” returned the crip- 
ple, “ and ould Howlaghan as wary and as cute as if 
he was all over ears ? Twice I timed to open the door, 
but I might as well offer to take the house upon my 
back. If I stirred, the ould joker was wide awake in a 
jiffey, crying, c Who’s making that noise there?’ Once 
I smoothed him up that it was coaxing the gamecock 
to be quiet, that I was; and another time, when I 
thought I had him snoring, and my fingers on the boult 
of the door — my dear life 1 his two hands was griping 
my shoulders, and he made me lie down again. Cotch 
that fellow napping, if you can ! Faix, you ’ll be cute 
if you do. 1 did my best, any way ; so his raverence 
can’t fault me that you didn’t speed better.” 

The fact was, that the little u Orange” mendicant 
had been specially employed, by either the parson or 
his proctor, to work upon Howlaghan’s charity for 

4 * 


42 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


admission to his house, of which he was to take advan- 
tage in the mode pointed out, by letting in the rector’s 
men to seize the farmer. 

When Padhreen’s brother reported to Howlaghan 
the colloquy that he had overheard, — “ God be prais- 
ed,” exclaimed the old man, that I didn’t know all 
that when I had my hands on Shaneen’s neck, this 
blessed morning. By this and by that, I ’d have mur- 
thered him, surely ! I ’d have throttled the treacher- 
ous, deceiving little reprobate, and tumbled him into 
the sea wid a stone round his neck. Thank God, I ’m 
saved from that sin, any how* !” 

* The ruse attempted to be played through the mendicant’s agency, is 
sketched from an actual fact. 


CHAPTER V. 

What has relieved thy bosom’s stormy flow ? 

‘ Tis when thou ’st wept. 

Fitz-Gerald. 

The day after Nancy had used her earnest efforts to 
dissuade her brother from all thoughts of violence, he 
rose at an early hour, for rest had fled from his weary 
pillow. He proceeded to a field adjoining his house, 
where, acting under the same feelings that had similar- 
ly influenced him on the preceding evening, he seized 
a spade, and worked for several minutes with a des- 
perate energy. But the turmoil of his mind was too 
great to be calmed or controlled by bodily exertion. 
He speedily flung aside the spade, exclaiming, — 

“ Why should 1 work here any more ? why should I 
dig another sod here ? It isn 5 t for myself — it ’s all for 
some new-comer now, that will have and enjoy too 
much of the labor of my hands without this and with 
these words he turned from the field, and sullenly saun- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


43 


lered down the bohereen, or lane, that led to the high 
road. 

It was rather from a sort of instinct, that led him to 
dream against hope and experience, of the bare possi- 
bility of interesting Lord Ballyvallin’s family in his be- 
half, than from any settled purpose of making the 
attempt, that poor Jerry took his sorrowful and driftless 
way along the road that led towards Knockanea. At an 
angle in the road he paused, and leaned on a fragment of 
rock ; and his eye unconsciously turned towards his snug, 
neat, farmsteading, on the hill above. Nancy appeared 
at the door with a pail in her hand, which she carried to 
the neighboring spring for water. Her step was a very 
little slower, and less elastic than usual ; and instead of 
carolling her accustomed rustic ditty, her "sweet voice 
was mute, and her eyes were bent upon the ground. 

“ She feels it all !” thought Jerry, as he gazed upon 
her, “and it cuts her to the heart, though she tries to 
keep her spirits up before me. May God’s best blessing 
light upon my angel sister, and relieve her poor heart, 
these cruel times !” 

And the poor fellow’s eyes filled up with tears, and he 
turned away his face from the direction of the cottage. 
“ Nancy is an angel !” thought her brother ; “ if her 
very worst enemy injured her to the utmost of his pow- 
er, she never would wish to revenge it ; she would pray 
to God to bless him, and to make him better for the fu- 
ture. Oh, but I wish I was like her ! But that can 
never be — my heart ’s too wicked to become like 
her’s.” 

And with this mental tribute of brotherly affection 
to his sisters worth, he resumed his cheerless way, with 
a sad and heavy heart. He had not proceeded a mile, 
when two red-coated, leather-breeched, top-booted 
horsemen, trotted briskly from another road, emerging 
on the road to Knockanea, in the same direction Jerry 
was pursuing. They slackened their speed as they ap- 
proached him. 

“ Devilish far it is to ride to cover, Mulligan,” said 
the elder Nimrod, who was no other than our excellent 
friend Madden. 


44 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ Yes,” responded Mulligan, superciliously, “it's 
devilish far, no doubt, for them that doesn’t keep a 
hack to carry them to cover. Ha, ha, ha ! Excuse 
me, Mr. Madden, I beseech you, but upon my soul I 
can’t help laughing — the idea is so devilish good ! Oh, 
gemini, how they’d stare at Melton Mowbray! ha ! ha! 
ha ! upon my soul I must laugh, or I’d burst ! By ge- 
mini, I would ! How the nobs there, my crony Water- 
ford, and a score of rattling tip-top fellows that I ’m 
hand and glove with, would split their shirts with laugh- 
ter at the sight of a fellow hunting with the baste he 
rode ten miles to cover ! Oh, blood ! Ha, ha, ha ! 
It ’s devilish good, though, Madden, a’n’t it ? By Jove, 
I Ml keep that for Alvanley !” 

“I don’t see where’s the harum of it, when your 
horse is strong enough,” answered Madden, doggedly, 
for he did not precisely relish the wit of Mr. Mulligan. 

“ Hawm? oh, not the laste in life, of coorse,” said 
Mulligan, checking his laughter, as if with an effort. 
“ Hawm ? oh, no hawm at all, my good Sir ; only such 
a thing is never done at Melton Mowbray, and seldom 
anywhere at all, except by snobs, you understand.” 

“ Snobs? and who ’s snobs ? Faith, Mr. Mulligan, 

I do not understand.” 

“ Oh, Sir, snobs is the term by which fashionable 
leedies and gentlemen designates every one that’s not 
tip-top — that doesn’t climb the high ropes — that ’s not 
quite up to snuff, you know. It ’s a fashionable phreese 
among exclusive circles,” added Mr. Mulligan, with an 
air of perfect information. 

“ Umph,” said Madden, “ it ’s all botheration, I think. 
But who’s that cut-gutter of a fellow that’s trudging 
on before us ?” 

It was just at this point of the conversation that the 
worthies overtook Howlaghan. 

“By dad, I know that chap of old,” said Madden, 
“and a worse affected, blacker-hearted pup of the dev- 
il, there isn’t in the province of Munster. I wish you 
heard Wrench describe the impudence the rascal gave 
him, the day he went to ask him for his vote. I went 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


45 

to canvass him too, but, dear heart! I might as well 
have whistled Patrick’s Day to your grandmother’s 
tombstone.” 

“ We’ll smoke him,” said the humorous Mr. Mulli- 
gan, who was anxious to seize every opportunity of dis- 
playing his wit. 

“ Halloo, Howlaghan,” said Madden, “ you ’re early 
on the road — where are you bound for?’’ 

“ Not far,” said Jerry, drily. 

“Does your mother know you're out ?” inquired 
Mr. Mulligan. 

Jerry, who was ignorant that the query was a bit of 
low London slang, which Mulligan had picked up at 
second or third hand, literally answered, — 

“ My mother ’s*dead, Sir.” 

“Devilish good, upon my soul !” exclaimed the wit, 
bursting into an immoderate fit of laughter ; “ what an 
ass the fellow is !” Jerry, who could not conceive what 
provocative to laughter existed in his mother’s death, 
looked up at the querist with no very amiable expression 
of countenance ; when Mulligan, resuming his slang cat- 
echism, asked, — 

“ Did you sell your mother's mangle yet ?” 

“ The man’s a common fool,” thought Jerry, walking 
on without answering the wit. 

“Damned insolent fellow he certainly is,” observed 
Mulligan to Madden; “you see how doggedly he 
tramps on, with his hat on one side of his head.” 

“ Ogh — never fear but Wrench will physic him yet, 
to some purpose,” whispered Madden ; “ it is rascals like 
him that one should make a particular example of. It ’s 
necessary to presarve the quiet and pace of the country, 
Mulligan, as my own experience as a magistrate enables 
me to know to my cost.” 

“Are you going to the hunt, my man 1” asked Mul- 
ligan. 

“ No,” replied Jerry. Mulligan rejoined with some 
incomparably stupid jest about the hounds drawing Jer- 
ry, he was such a fox, instead of reynard. 

“ Come along, and never mind him,” said Madden 


46 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


putting his horse to a trot ; and adding, in a lower tone, 
“it’s hounds of another sort we 11 get to hunt that 
fellow ; he may find his earth stopped before long.” 

“God help me,” thought Jerry, when his tormentors 
were gone, “ my heart was too much down to let me 
answer them the way their impudence desarved. 
And may be it is better that I didn’t. And that born 
fool, with his grin, and his long greasy curls — that un- 
common ommadhawn — laughing when I tould him my 
mother was dead, and axing if I sold her mangle ! 
Why the booby hasn’t got as much brains as would feed 
a droleen* !” 

Thus soliloquizing, Jerry contemptuously dismissed 
Mr. Mulligan from his mind, and reverted — alas ! it re- 
quired no effort ! — to his own misfortunes. He contin- 
ued, with but little variation, to reiterate the question, 
“ Shall I, or shall I not, make one more attempt to 
move the Bally vallin people ?” 

For another hour he continued to saunter slowly on, 
in perfect indecision as to how he should act. “ If I 
got Mrs. Mersey to speak to his lordship,” thought Jer- 
ry ; “ she ’s a civil-spoken lady, and has often stopped 
to chat with me, as free and friendly as if I was her 
equal. But, no !” he suddenly exclaimed — “ there ’s no 
use in trying — I ’m a ruined man — 1 11 try no more, so I 
won’t !” 

And as he came to this final resolution, he quitted 
the Knockanea road, and diverged into a glen that rose 
high and steep on either side of a rapid, brawling brook, 
that debouched about a quarter of a mile further on, 
into the river Hen, well known to southern trout and 
salmon fishers. 

At the spot where the glen opened on the river’s 
bank, Jerry’s attention was caught by the sound of a 
voice, not altogether strange to his ear, chaunting out 
a matin hymn. He had recently met the singer on three 
or four occasions, at Father John O’Connor’s. “ ’Tis 
ould Terence O’Leary,” said he ; “ how early he is 
out.” 


* A Wren. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


47 


Unwilling to interrupt Terence, Jerry gazed and 
listened without coming farther forward, until the hymn 
should have been concluded. And a holy and beauti- 
ful sight it was, to behold the venerable old man, kneel- 
ing at the side of a lonely hill, to sing his Maker’s 
morning praises in the midst of scenes whose sublimi- 
ty strongly bore the impress of that Maker’s hand. 
The early sun shone on Terence’s bare head, and the 
fresh breeze that rippled the river played through his 
long grey locks ; his clear blue eyes were lifted up to 
heaven, as he sang the ancient morning canticle, com- 
mencing thus : — 

“ Deo jubente, jam redit 
Aurora lucis nuntia ; 

Mentesque nostras admonet, 

Ut pareant ipsse Deo.” 

Terence sang the several stanzas of the hymn uncon- 
scious of the presence of his auditor ; and Jerry, who was 
far from being insensible to impressions of devotion, felt 
strongly moved at the air of genuine, unaffected piety, 
that marked the kneeling suppliant ; ‘the heartfelt joy 
with which he seemed to commune with his Maker. 

“ Oh !” thought he, “ how happy Terence is ! And 
! why mayn’t I be happy in like manner too, if I only 
I keep away from all bad thoughts and passions?” 

As he pondered, the old man concluded his hymn, 

I and making the sign of the cross, arose from his knees. 
In another instant he confronted Jerry. 

, “ Why, you look as if you had been watching me,” 

i said he, smiling ; “ what brought you here V 1 

“ I was watching you, too,” replied Jerry, “ and 
i wishing I could find as much pleasure in my prayers.” 

“ Try — try — God will not break the bruised reed, 

>; nor quench the smoking flax — he ever is ready to help 
those that set to work to serve Him in singleness of 
•; heart.” 

“ Are you going to the priest’s ?” demanded Jerry. 

“ Yes — will you come too ?” 

“I intended, this morning, to make another trial of 
what I could do to soften the Bally vallin folk,” said Jer- 


48 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


ry ; “and just before I turned down the glen I had 
made up my mind not to try.” 

“ Have you tried already ?” 

“ Yes, but I couldn’t see my lord ; he had a fit of the 
gout, and I came back without my errand. What 
would you advise me to do, Mr. O’Leary ?” 

“ It is hard to advise a man in your case, Jerry ; but 
from all I ’ve heard Father John, and everybody say, 
there is nothing will coax Wrench to let you keep the 
farm ; and only one thing will Lord Bally vallin listen 
to. I heard this from Dempsey, who went last week to 
Knockanea to try and keep his own. He saw my lord, 
and only one condition would his lordship listen to.” 

“ And that ?” inquired Jerry, anxiously. 

“ To promise solemnly and faithfully to support my 
lord’s candidates at every future election. Those were 
his terms with Dempsey.” 

“ I ’d starve first !” exclaimed Howlaghan, indignant- 
ly. “ Vote for a man that would screw down the tithes 
on Ireland ! vot^for a man that would support the Un- 
ion, by which Ireland was swindled, sould, disgraced, 
and beggared ! vote for a man that But it ’s no mat- 

ter. 1 ’d starve first. If that’s his only terms there’s 
no room for bargaining.” 

And Jerry formed the resolve which tens of thou- 
sands of his poor fellow-countrymen have formed — that 
resolve which so prominently marks the Irish peasant’s 
character — to stand by the rights and independence of 
his native country, and defy all consequences. 


CHAPTER VI. 

La vie d’une femme est toujours un roman. 

Boils au» 

When Mrs. Mersey had succeeded in dissuading 
Prince Gruffenhausen from lodging informations against 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


49 


Jerry, she condoled with his Serene Highness on the 
injury his vrowtchsk had sustained ; and then saunter- 
ed on to a summer-house that occupied a warm nook 
beneath a hill, and which, from its southern aspect, en- 
joyed every gleam of sunshine the advancing spring af- 
forded. Here she took her seat ; and here she had not 
long remained when his Highness and Baron Leschen 
followed ; and not perceiving that the sprightly widow 
occupied the interior of the building, they seated them- 
selves upon a bench beneath the porch. 

They conversed in German ; but the proficiency which 
Mrs. Mersey had acquired in that language, under the 
tuition of the Baron, enabled her to understand their 
conversation ; which, for the benefit of such of our read- 
ers as have not the good fortune to be skilled in that 
euphonious dialect, we translate into English. 

“ Pofe ! pofe ! pofe !” puffed the Fatalist, with an air 
more contemptuously cynical, if possible, than usual. 

“ Something disturbs you,” said the Baron, with infi- 
nite sympathy. 

“ Pofe ! pofe ! pofe !” puffed his hairiness, shaking 
his head. 

“I would willingly console your Highness, were it in 
my power,” said the compassionate Baron. 

“ Mein excellent Baron, I do not entertain the small- 
est doubts of your friendly sympathy ; but there are dis- 
eases that baffle the physician’s art ; there are tricks that 
transcend the hexenmeister' s* skill ; there are clouds of 
darkness, gloom, and mist, that overshadow the human 
soul at certain seasons, and bid defiance to the reason- 
ings, the expostulations of philosophy. Will you be 
the Zauberer, and charm these clouds away ? Pofe ! you 
cannot !” 

“ Undoubtedly, I cannot even try,” replied the Baron, 
“ unless you tell me the nature of these sable overshad- 
owing clouds.” 

“ Baron Leschen,” said the Prince, very gravely, 
“ last night I had a dark dream.” 

“ A dark dream ? Of what nature, pray ?” 

* A conjurer. 


VOL. II. 


50 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ O, of portentous mystery ! Are you a good inter- 
preter of dreams ?” 

“ Tolerably good,” responded Leschen. 

“ I,” resumed his Highness, “ have been reading my 
Traum Bucher, and yet I do not find a satisfactory 
solution. I should be glad, mein friend, to hear your 
opinion.” 

“ My opinion you shall have, when I hear your High- 
ness’s portentous dream.” 

“ Then hearken, O! Leschen, to the vision of mys- 
tery, and use your best judgment to decypher it. Me- 
thought I was mercilessly squeezed in a rusty old chain, 
that some woman had wound round my body and limbs. 
This merciless woman pulled the chain till it squeezed 
me like a smith’s vice. Mein heiligkeit ! the torture 
was intolerable l I could not have endured it much 
longer, when the rusty old chain suddenly broke, and 
the woman vanished. Ach ! how 1 danced with de- 
light at my freedom ! Yet the mark of the chain still 
disfigured my limbs. Now listen to me well, mein 
worthy friend. 

“ I saw a woman of a tall and graceful figure. She 
approached me with accents of sympathy, but I did not 
see her face. That was concealed beneath a long black 
veil, that encircled her head and descended to her waist. 
The sight of her made me uneasy — almost fearful — l 
knew not why — but she soon gave me cause for unea- 
siness — for, O 1 mein most excellent friend ! she glided 
up quite close to me, fell upon her knees at my feet, 
and before I could recover from my surprise — mein 
word ! she had fastened another chain upon my legs , 
in the very place that was galled, and raw, and sore, 
from the pressure of the first. Now, no doctrine is 
more sure, among the marvellous and mighty mysteries 
of die vorher bestimmung * , than that dreams shadow 
dimly forth the mystic decrees of Das Schiksal.” 

“ Undoubtedly,” said Leschen, “ and I think your 
Highness has received a warning.” 

“ A warning ? O, my dear, good, Leschen, speak !” 


* Predestination. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


51 


“ May I speak out plainly to your Highness ?” asked 
Leschen. 

“ Pofe ! yes — yes. Only tell me what you think my 
Schiksal is.” 

“ Then, since your Highness permits the unres erved 
expression of my thoughts, I must say that 1 interpret 
the rusty old chains in the former portion of your 
dream, to mean hen Serene Highness, Princess Gruffen- 
hausen, your most High and Mighty Wife. Then I 
think that the breaking of these chains implies that 
your Serene Wife will die.” 

“ Oh, Leschen, you do not really think so ? pofe ! 55 

“ But I really do think so, I assure your Highness. 
Then you dreamt that another woman came V’ 

“ Yes — dressed in a robe of dazzling white ; and her 
face concealed in a long black veil. I think she had 
been keeping sentry on me, like a baarerihauter * — and 
I scarcely had time to rejoice in the snapping of the 
rusty old chain, when — mein himmel ! this she-sentinel 
had fettered up my limbs in a new one — tight ! tight ! 
ach ! very tight !” 

“ Was its pressure as severe as that of the former 
chain V’ asked Leschen. 

“ Pofe ! no — nor half as severe. 5 * 

“ The meaning is, 55 said Leschen, resuming his office 
of interpreter, “ that this female baarenhauter* will as- 
suredly propose herself in marriage to your Highness, 
as soon as your present Serene Consort dies. 55 

“ Pofe' ! and must I marry the baarenhauter ? 55 ask- 
ed the poor prince. 

“ She fastened the chains on — did she not ? 55 interro- 
gated Leschen. 

“ She did — upon the sore place, where the other 
chains had galled,” replied the prince, despondingly. 

“ Then you must marry her ; that is undoubtedly 
your Schiksal.” 

“ It is a mystic and marvellous Schiksal, 55 soliloquiz- 
ed Prince GrufFenhausen, resting his hairy face upon 
his hand, “ and whatever it decrees, whatever be the 


* Baarenhauter — a Sentinel. 


62 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


final issue, — we, poor, unsubstantial bubbles, tossed on 
the tops of the billows, must abide by it. Pofe ! it is 
strange and dark — I should like to penetrate the veil of 
destiny — but we cannot — mein himmel ! we cannot !” 

“ I am not so undoubting a believer in the ponderous 
doctrine as your Highness,” said the Baron, “ but I ex- 
plained your dream by the rules laid down by Diedrich 
Klingerstein.” 

“ Ah ! that was the golden and erudite and palmary 
treatise. Klingerstein had a marvellous gift for ex- 
pounding dark omens — yes, indeed !” 

The Prince and Leschen soon afterwards rose, and 
walked away, without discovering that every word they 
had spoken had reached the attentive ears of Mrs. Mer- 
sey ; who never failed to turn every incident, if possi- 
ble, to her own advantage. She now resolved, should 
the opportunity offer itself, to avail herself of Gruffen- 
hausen’s deeply rooted superstition, and unlimited faith 
in the all-controlling dictates of Das. Schiksal. 
“ Should the ponderous prince become a widower/’ 
thought she, “ and should I be but able to persuade 
him that l am his Destiny, — heigh ! presto ! the work 
is done, and 1 am metamorphosed from the agreeable 
and lively widow Mersey, into Her Serene Highness the 
Princess Amelia Eleonora Gruffenhausen, of the House 
of Krunks Doukerstein, and so forth. How my titles 
would adorn the newspapers ! my very name would be 
worth an annuity to the penny-a-liners. How my sau- 
ciness would be applauded as wit ! How my eccentri- 
cities would be seized upon by all aspiring misses, as 
models for character and manner ! I will watch events, 
and if they favor me, — thy hairy physiognomy, Adol- 
phus Gruffenhausen, shall be mine . Au moins, I 
shall watch events.” 

Events seemed determined to assist the ambition of 
our widow. By a singular coincidence, the next post 
from Germany confirmed the prognostic that the Prince’s 
rusty chains were broken ; his Serene partner, who had 
long been unhealthy, had actually paid the debt of na- 
ture. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


53 


{i Leschen ! Leschen !” cried his Highness, “ you 
are certainly ein Hexenmeister ! do you remember fot 
you said about dat mystery dat vas shown me in mein 
dream ? Ach ! but you pierce de darkness'of die 
Zukunft ! you see through dat mysteries of chains 

” (lowering his tone) “ tneine~wife is dead — oh, 

yes indeed ! she die at last in earnest — pofe ! mein ^ 
rusty chains are broke— ach ! but I did not half belief 
you — pofe !” 

Your Highness surprise me ! I do condole very 
hearty vid your Highness.” 

“ Oh, as to all dat condoling business — pofe ! I do 
tank you mein friend, for you mean it fery civil. I 
must haf mourning livery for Hoffman Achloss, and all 
dose oder scoundrel — Baf! we must do dese tings 
comme il faut — en prince , as the French say.” 

“ Permit me, mein prince ; you vill not be offend, 
nor affront, at fot I say ; but I tink dat you should stay 
in your chamber for two or dree days, and make less 
dialogue vid beoples for a week dan fot you haf done ; 
and put on show of being ferry sorry for a while ; for 
beoples exbects dese mark of mourning, wheder you do 
care von pinch of snuff or not. Your Highness is not 
offend.” 

< c Pofe ! you nefer could offend me, Leschen. I 
will take dat advice, aldough it is all von great foolish^ 
ness.” 


CHAPTER VII. 


Sweet, innocent and unobtrusive one — who could have seen thy blushing 
cheek, and heard thy tongue falter out the tender story of thy love, without 
longing to clasp thee in his arms ? 

Stephen Racket’s Adventures. 


In pursuance of Leschen’s advice to regard appear- 
ances, Prince Gruffenhausen secluded himself in his 
5 * 


54 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


chamber for two or three days. His apartment open- 
ed on a long and lofty gallery, hung with old portraits ; 
the next doors in succession to that of his Highness, 
were Lady Jacintha’s and Mrs. Mersey’s. 

Mrs. Mersey commenced her operations at once. 
Arranging her attire to resemble the dress of the “ ba - 
arenhauter womans ” in his Highness’s dream, she as- 
sumed a flowing robe of snowy white, and shrouded 
her head in a long, thick, sweeping, sable veil. And, 
thus attired, she sallied forth from her apartment, confi- 
dent that Gruflenhausen’s locomotive impulses would 
speedily stimulate his Highness to promenade the gal- 
lery. 

She scarcely had begun to pace its length, when La- 
dy Jacintha appeared from her apartment. Astonish- 
ed at the strange, and almost spectral vision which the 
widow’s appearance presented, her ladyship had nearly 
screamed, when Mrs. Mersey raised her veil, and laugh- 
ingly said, “ Do not be alarmed — it is only a friend.” 

“ Bless me !” exclaimed Lady Jacintha, “ what does 
all this mean ? where is Baron Leschen ?” 

“ Ah, you most suspicious of suspicious beings !” 
cried the widow*, “ how soon your apprehensions are 
alarmed ! But fear not,” continued Mrs. Mersey, af- 
fectionately pressing her ladyship’s hand, “ my present 
manoeuvres have not the most remote connexion with 
Leschen — I surrender him wholly, freely, uncondition- 
ally to you, now and for ever. And since we are no 
longer rivals, why may we not be faithful allies ? Lady 
Jacintha, do we understand each other?” 

‘‘Perfectly, my dearest Amelia,” answered her lady- 
ship, returning the widow’s friendly pressure, — “per- 
fectly, so far as Leschen is concerned ; but your dress 
is an inexplicable mystery — Do explain.” 

“ No ! no ! no 1 away ! away ! I cannot at this mo- 
ment explain any thing ! For mercy’s sake away 1 van- 
ish ! I hear his Highness clattering about in his jack 
boots — away ! away ! Be silent^ and keep Leschen in 
the drawing-room.” 

Lady Jacintha vanished as the widow desired, in ut- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


55 


ter astonishment at her singular attire. She had 
scarcely disappeared, when Grutfenhausen opened the 
door of his apartment to saunter forth upon the gallery, 
and was suddenly confronted by the widow. • 

“ Tousand deyvils !” screamed the prince, sinking 
back upon a chair, “it is mine baarenhauter womans! 
O ! Spirit of Diedrich Kiingerstein ! mein Schiksal vas 
foreshown to me in dot dream ! Speak, dow Woman 
of Destiny ! haf you gotten chains ?” 

“ No,” responded Mrs. Mersey, in a voice most mu- 
sically soft and sweet, “ not chains, but silken cords.” 

“ Woman of Destiny,” exclaimed his Highness, much 
perturbed, “ who beest dow ? Put away dat veil, and 
let me see your face.” 

“ I cannot put aside my veil,” replied Mrs. Mersey, 
whose voice the excessive agitation of the prince still 
prevented him from recognizing; “ how could a gentle 
and retiring woman, consistently with the shrinking 
delicacy of her tender sex, declare unveiled that her 
heart has been won? and declared*, too, to the man by 
whom the conquest has been gained ?” 

“ Oh mein heafens !” groaned the Prince, “ dis is d<5 
second chains I dreamed of! De dark, gloomich hour, 
foreshadowed in mein Schiksal, has come.” 

“ Do not call your Schiksal dark or gloomy,” said the 
widow, in her softest, most assuasive accents ; “ I can 
read it too, and I here proclaim that it is bright and joy- 
ous. — Your page in the Book of Fate is henceforth 
studded with glowing gems of the rarest lustre ; it t* 
twined with roses of the softest fragrance. Shadows, 
no doubt, there are ; but believe my skill in the mighty 
and portentous mystery, when I tell you that those 
shadows are merely the deeper recesses of felicity.” 

“ Mein beiligkeil ! but dis is most marvellous talk !’’ 

“ Yes, it is marvellous, no doubt,” resumed the wid- 
ow. “ To us, poor, powerless automata, an insight in- 
to the mysterious future must always be marvellous. 
But to those who have made the Mighty Mystery their 
study, the veil that overshadows Destiny is but a veil 
of gossamer. It conceals enough to excite interest and 


56 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


to rivet curiosity : it exhibits enough to remove perplex- 
ing doubt and terror.” 

“ Mein himmel ! but you do understand de marvel- 
ous dflgtrine l” 

“ I have had my warnings/* continued Mrs. Mersey, 
“ in the shadowy visions of sleep ; the unearthly hand 
that spreads before our slumbering eyes the dim and 
shifting, yet prophetic scenes, from which we may col- 
lect our future lot, has copiously unrolled before me his 
phantasmagoria. I started, I shuddered, on beholding 
it ; I dreaded lest its flattering import might prove de- 
lusive ; I studied the incomparable treatise of Diedrich 
Klingerstein, and applied his rules in a hundred varied 
ways to my nocturnal visions. Oh ! Prince Gruffen- 
hausen ! the result was invariably the same — my heart 
trembled, my bosom throbbed, as I found the convic- 
tion irresistibly forced upon my mind, from repeated 
experiments, that my Schiksal was inextricably inter- 
woven with that of your Highness.” 

“ Ach ! mine friend ! but I tin U I know you now/* 
said the Prince, whose agitation had so much subsided 
that at length he recognized her accents. “ Mein him- 
mel 1 I link you are Mrs. Mersey — pofe !” 

The widow was silent. 

“ I link you may take off dat veil,” he continued, re- 
moving from her head the sweeping folds of sable dra- 
pery. She modestly sank down upon her knees, cross- 
ed her hands upon her breast, and hung down her clas- 
sic head, and bent her eyes upon the floor with a cap- 
tivating air of timidity. 

“ And so you are de baarenhauter womans of mein 
dream V* exclaimed the Prince in a moralizing tone ; 
“ Mighty queer decrees of Destiny — baf ! we are all 
like de little feather on de wind ! w*e are blown, blown 
away, where ever de storm fwhistle us. Mein wort ! 
but you do understand de dogtrine fery well, mine 
Woman of Destiny !” 

“ 1 could not escape the thorough knowledge of it,” 
answered the widow, still upon her knees, and not dar^ 


THE HUSBANH-HUNTER. 


57 


ing lo raise her eyes to the hairy face of the August 
Man ; “I could not escape the thorough knowledge of 
it, with such an instructor as your Highness. And the 
doctrine itself is a most fascinating one, and seizes with 
resistless force upon the intellect and the affections. 
How could I — unguarded, inexperienced being as I 
was ! — how could I hear its canons explained, its mys- 
teries unfolded, its wild bewildering labyrinths familiar- 
ized, in your Highness’s serenely condescending ac- 
cents, without feeling Heavens ! what was I going 

to say ? At all events, it is certain that my present 
condition affords an overwhelming proof of the truth 
of the mighty and ponderous doctrine. For, — what 
power in the universe, save that of all-controlling irre- 
sistible Schiksal, could force an humble, unobtrusive, 
shrinking, and retiring woman, in defiance of the dic- 
tates of her native delicacy, to declare to your Highness 
that her heart, her wounded heart, is your’s ?” 

And the widow, overcome by the wound that fate 
inflicted on her modesty, burst into tears. 

“ Pofe ! I don’t like crying womens,” said the Prince. 
(Mrs. Mersey’s tears instantaneously ceased.) “ Get 
up out of dat. Baf ! if any body saw you kneeling just 
inside my door, dey w'ould tink you were fery queer, 
and dat 1 vas fery queer too. Mein honest wort, it is 
all a marvelous queer business, efery bit of it. Oh ! de 
dark, and huge, and black, and mighty volumes of Das 
Schiksal ! if we could read de tousand pages of our hid- 
den Fate — (Pofe ! I wish you vould go away, mine Wo- 
man of Destiny !) if our Schiksal has decreed dat we 
are to be married — (oh ! mein heafens ! fot a Schiksal!) 
I suppose we will, vvheder you stay dere or not.” (The 
w'idow vanished.) “ Pofe ! she is gone. Poor womans 
— she is not to blame — she cannot help dese tings no 
more dan I. And yet she is a bedder Destiny dan mein 
cousin Prince Rupert of Saxe-Blunderstein got. Mein 
wort ! he married de tochter of a tinker, and she had no 
teeth, and only dree vingers on her left hand. But, 
ach ! sh« had de gelt ; her fader plundered Badajoz after 
dat siege, and robbed four great, rich Jews. Mein him- 


58 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


mel ! de tinker’s tochter had a million golden (I 

vould like to see Leschen.) Mrs. Mersey haf not got 
de gelt, but O ! I like her bedder dan de tinker’s toch- 
ter.” 

Leschen came when summoned by the Prince. On 
entering his Highness’s apartment, the Baron at once 
perceived that the serenity of his Serene Friend was 
much disturbed ; his eyes rolled wildly ; he had dashed 
aside his hair, and left his rugged brow exposed, and 
his whole exterior was that of a man in a state of great 
mental excitement. 

“ Mein vriend,” said he “ I haf seen de Woman of 
mein dream.” 

“Impossible!” exclaimed the Baron. 

“Tousand deyvils !” cried the Prince, provoked at 
Leschen’s incredulity, “ but I tell you dat I did.” 

“ Well,” demanded Leschen, “and who is dis mar- 
velous frauenzimmer ?” 

“ It is Misdress Mersey.” 

“ Misdress Mersey ?” 

<c Yes, I do tell you, Leschen. Dat funny, spright- 
lich widow, is de woman of mein destiny. Mein wort ! 
but I started when I opened mein door dis morning and 
saw de ferry woman of mein traum ! I schwear to you, 
mein friend, dat dere she vas, valking back and forward 
like de baarenhauter, dressed in de long, white gown, 
and her head wrapped up in de black veil ; efery bit of 
it just like de woman’s dat I dreamed about.” 

“ Marvelous ; ferry marvelous indeed !” ejaculated 
Leschen. 

“ And den she propose to chain me in de silken cord 
of matrimony — baf 1 I could not tell you de von half of 
fot she said ; but her voice vas as sweed as an angel’s.” 

“ Marfelous ! ferry marfelous indeed !” repeated the 
astonished Leschen. 

“ I do not like to marry de womans at all,” said the 
Prince. 

“ Den do not marry her,” sagely advised Leschen. 

“ Pole ! Leschen, I tought you had more sense. 
You know dat as she is mine Woman of Destiny, shown 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


59 


forth in dat most wonderfullest dream, I could not es- 
cape marrying her, no more dan I can escape dying 
when de hour calls. Marry her ! no doubt I must, but 
I say I do not like it. Marry her ? Ach ! Ich ver- 
muthe esmeine schickung sie zu vermahlen* !” Yes! 
yes! yes! it is mine destiny.” 

“ Mein dear Prince,” said the compassionate Baron, 
“ I do pity you.” 

“ I wish it were my destiny to break her neck !” 
growled Gruffenhausen. 

“ O, mein friend,” remonstrated Leschen, “ dat is not 
a kind notion ; put away dat notion entirely from you. 
Mein wort, she is a very prettish womans, and I tink 
you may like her fery well.” 

“ Ach ! I fery nearly broke her neck before ! you re- 
member dat day, Leschen ? But it vas not allotted dat^ 
should happen. Oh, Leschen, if it had ” 

“ Well, and if it had ? fot den ? you would have lost 
a fery sprightlich, prettich wife, who understands your 
own favorite dogtrine, and beliefs in it too. When I 
think moche upon it, I do not tink you haf got such 
a fery bat fate as you do fear.” 

“Baf! I must only make der best of it. Pofe ! I 
suppose de allerbestmost ting I can do now is to mar- 
ry dis womans as quig as I can. Since Das Schiksal 
has decreed it, de sooner as de better.” 

The Fatalist having now got strongly possessed with 
the notion, that the likeliest method of propitiating his 
destiny, was to accelerate, so far as he could, the exe- 
cution of its decrees, Baron Leschen’s chief difficulty 
was to prevent him from marrying Mrs. Mersey indeco- 
rously soon after the demise of his late illustrious con- 
sort. 

But his efforts could only avail to effect a month’s 
postponement of the nuptials. His Highness and the 
widow repaired to London, where they were married 
by the chaplain to the Bavarian Ambassador. Lady 
Jacintha was bridesmaid, which office she performed 
with immense satisfaction. 




* Ah ! I suppose it is my fate to marry her. 


60 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


When the prince bestowed the bridal kiss upon his 
princess, the face of the latter was buried in the huge 
curled muff that adorned the serene physiognomy. La- 
dy Jacintha laughed. 

“ You may laugh,” whispered the Princess Gruffen- 
hausen, good humoredly, “ mais rtestce pas le grand 
jeu aprls tout 1 Thank my stars, — or as his Highness 
would say, thank my schiksal, I have done for a while 
with mon metier de veuve” 

<£ Votre metier de veuve !” repeated Lady Jacintha, 
£ ‘ I fancy you care not how soon you resume it. You 
know my father’s chaplain says he can never recollect 
your name, you have changed it so often.” 

“ Tell him,” replied her Serene Highness, “ that on 
this last occasion I have changed it so well, that he 
# need not apprehend any future alterations. Ah, no, 
my dearest Jacintha; you shall see that I have really 
some moderation ; should I, unfortunately, be doomed 
to survive my furry partner, I would never supplant 
him with another ; unless, indeed,” she added playfully, 
u some royal lover should tempt my constancy; in 
which case I cannot say that I should prove unreasona- 
bly obstinate.” 

“Come, come, come !” exclaimed the bridegroom; 
“ my vrowtchsk is waiting at de door, and I am waiting 
to drive it. Get in, Lady Jacintha ; get in mine Wife 
of Destiny ; I made promise to Lord Marston to be at 
his house at dree o’glock, and it is now fife minutes af- 
ter two ; dwenty-one miles to go in fifty-fife minutes — 
pofe ! but de horses are goot — fery goot.” 

“ Now,” thought the princess, “ may kind Heaven 
forefend a repetition of his Serene coachmanship — as- 
sist me, dearest Jacintha, in this awful strait.” 

“ Surely,” said Lady Jacintha, who felt alarmed on 
her own account as well as on that of her friend, 
" your Highness cannot possibly mean to occupy the 
coach-box and leave Amelia and myself alone ? Such 
a thing would be really unprecedented — you must come 
with us.” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


61 


“ Pofe ! I hate to be boxed up vid womans, but if 
you all haf such desires for mein company, I don’t gare 
if I oblige you for dis once.” 

His highness accordingly entered the vehicle, much 
to the delight of his fair companions, who felt the safe- 
ty of their limbs essentially concerned in the commis- 
sion of the reins to more judicious hands. 

“ Pofe ! pofe! pofe!” puffed the princely bride- 
groom, throwing himself back in his seat, and inhaling 
enormous quantities of German snuff, of which the 
minuter particles were wafted to the Princess and Lady 
Jacintha, and set them sneezing violently. 

"Pofe! pofe! pofe!” puffed his Highness, twisting 
his fingers through his ponderous mustachios, and cast- 
ing his eyes upwards with an air of abstraction ; “ queer 
ting it is to be married, doubtless. Why do beoples 
do it? Ach ! dere is but de one answer — begause dey 
cannot help it. Deir destiny impels dem. Why are 
de ships swallowed up in de black, mighty vortex of 
der Maelstrom ? Mein wort, it is begause when dey 
get within de suction of the fwirlpool, dey are swept 
round, round, round ; getting nearer and nearer to de 
centre of de mighty gulf, until, at last — baf ! down dey 
go. Just so it is vid matrimony. It is a mighty Mael- 
strom, in which, like de ships, we are swallowed up, 
when once our Schiksal impels us within de suction 
of its influence. Pofe ! it is all von huge foolishness, 
like every ting else in dis world of folly — pofe ! pofe ! 
pofe ! Hermann,” cried his Highness, suddenly pulling 
the checkstring, “ drive faster 1 faster ! faster ! whip 
de horses — slash! slash! slash! We shall not be at 
Lord Marston’s at dree o’glock.” 

“ Will that be any great harm, my love?” said the 
Princess. 

Lady Jacintha’s good-breeding could hardly repress 
a smile. 

“ Mein love !” repeated Gruffenhausen scoflingly ; 
“ mein love ! where did you learn to speak foolishness? 
Call me your Schiksal , not your love, if you wish to 

VOL. II. 6 


02 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


sbeak de truth, Slash away, Hermann — Slash away- — 
dat is right — dere we go — pole ! slash ! slash !” 

They arrived in safety at Lord Marston’s, where the 
bridal festivities afforded delightful materials to the 
newspaper chroniclers ; and after a few days, of which 
the events left the Princess much in doubt as to whe- 
ther she had purchased her elevation at too dear a price, 
the Fatalist transferred her to the ancient Castle of 
Krunks Doukerstein, where she was destined to spend 
the remainder of the. honeymoon, — and some tedious 
time besides. 

His Highness turned his attention to the science of 
judicial astrology, the study of which was revived by 
a learned professor in the neighborhood of Krunks 
Doukerstein. The astrologer predicted the birth of a 
young prince upon a certain day ; and as the event 
happened to verify the augury, the Serene Philosopher, 
in order to propitiate the astral influences, insisted, not- 
withstanding the remonstrance of his august consort, 
on naming his infant son, Capricorn. 

“ Pofe 1 foolish Woman of mine Destiny — haf you 
not sense enough to know dat de constellations dat 
foretold our young Capricorn’s birth, vil be likely to 
take gare of his fortunes, for haffing his name called af- 
ter von of demselfs? Baf! you vil nefer haf sense.” 


CHAPTER Till. 


Once Peace smiled on the peasant’s cot. 

And all was bliss beneath her rays ; 

Oh, why was not my humble lot 
Cast in those happy, early days ? 

Tales of the Glew, 


Months passed on, and in the following September, 
Mr. Wrench’s threat of ejection was carried into effect 
against Jerry Howlaghan. Jerry had offered the agent 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


63 


to pay for every one of the improvements on his farm, 
if he only were allowed time to make up the money ; 
or, in the event of his not being able to make out the re- 
quisite sum within a given period, he proposed to pay 
the amount of the balance in labor , either at his land- 
lord’s domain, or at Mr. Wrench’s. But he offered in 
vain. Mr. Wrench was inexorable ; and to all the re- 
monstrances of Jerry, he constantly answered ,“ It ’s im- 
possible — perfectly impossible. The ground is promis- 
ed to a solvent, honest, respectable man, who won’t be 
requiring allowances for farm buildings.” 

“Troth he needn’t,” said Jerry, “for they’re all 
built to his hand.” 

“ Well, well, Howlaghan, I tell you the farm has 
been promised, and you wouldn’t ask a gentleman to 
break his promise, would you ?” 

“ The gentleman has broken his promise already to 
myself about the allowances,” said Jerry, doggedly. 

“ Get out of my presence, you insolent scoundrel,” 
said Wrench ; “ what a fool 1 am to bandy words with 
you !” 

Jerry departed without further remonstrance, for he 
saw the case was hopeless. It should be noticed, 
that whatever features of penuriousness appeared in 
Wrench’s conduct, were entirely the offspring of his 
personal habits and character ; Lord Bally vallin had not 
the smallest concern with them. His Lordship did not 
want to increase his rents, or to evade giving reasona- 
ble aid to such farmers as were suffered to remain on 
his estate ; the motives of his conduct were exclusively 
political. He wanted his tenants to support his favor- 
ite candidates at elections, and was quite ready to per- 
secute them if they refused to do so. Exclusively of 
this motive, Lord Bally vallin was not only a just, but 
inclined to be a kind and generous landlord. It was, 
on every account, an extremely unfortunate circum- 
stance for the tenants on the Knockanea estate, that 
the agency was held by Mr. Wrench ; for, while on the 
one hand, that gentleman’s political zeal spurred their 
landlord to acts of oppression, on the other hand, his 


64 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTEB. 


habits of exaction had led him to extort money, and la- 
bor, and subsidies of different descriptions from the 
farmers, by the means with which the unconscientious 
Irish agent has so long been familiarized. 

In order to meet all these demands, the farmers were 
compelled to augment their resources by all the expe- 
dients within reach. The readiest means that seemed 
to offer, was the system of illicit distillation ; for the 
distiller can always command a quick market for his 
whiskey. That such a system should extensively de- 
moralize the district where it once becomes prevalent, 
must be obvious to every one ; and accordingly it hap- 
pened that many acts of outrage and of riot, from time 
to time, disgraced the Knockanea estate ; certain por- 
tions of which, were particularly marked by the turbu- 
lence that sprang from a source so mischievously stimu- 
lating. These circumstances afforded Mr. Wrench a 
most acceptable pretext for expelling as many of the 
farmers from their holdings as he possibly could : he 
talked of their crimes, of their murderous propensities, 
their demoralization ; which, by accidental candor, he 
ascribed to their habits of illicit distillation, totally for- 
getting that the abettors of that system were equally 
culpable with the distillers themselves. 

That in a wholesale process of expulsion there should 
be some individuals expelled, whose idle or disorderly 
conduct disentitled them to favor or protection, was 
naturally to be expected. But that many other indi- 
viduals were victims to cruel and unprincipled oppres- 
sion, was also undeniably true. The agent made no 
distinctions. How, or why should he? He sent adrift 
the honest and industrious, as well as the demoralized 
and worthless. For Aim, it was enough that the delin- 
quent had voted against Mr. Beresford ; his doom was 
irrevocably sealed*. Jerry Howlaghan’s former pug- 
nacious propensities were cast in his teeth ; his subse- 
quent amendment was studiously forgotten. 


* The author, in the present sketch, does not mean to delineate the cir- 
cumstances of any particular estate ; he only desires to point out one source 
of the turbulei.ee that sometimes afflicts certain portions of his native country. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


05 


It was a day of gloom and sorrow to Jerry, when he 
and Nancy were to take their final leave of the farm 
of Gurthnahuethee. The house was empty enough ; 
for they had disposed of their furniture by private sale, 
to such of their neighbors as were sufficiently wealthy 
to purchase it. Some of the articles were new, and 
these Jerry would have willingly retained, if he had any 
prospect of again possessing a house, in which to make 
use of them. But no such prospect presented itself ; 
and he was consequently obliged to sell them at some 
disadvantage. 

“ Come, Jerry, sit down and eat your breakfast,” 
said Nancy, who had arranged their morning meal up- 
on a table of which one end was fastened by hinges to 
the wall, and which Wrench had prevented them from 
selling, on the plea of its being a fixture. 

“Our last breakfast in the house I’ve labored so 
much for,” responded Jerry, mournfully. 

“ Yes, dear,” said his sister, “ but what must be 
done must ; and to tell you the truth, I ’d rather have 
as little delay as possible when Wrench and Schofield 
comes for the shelliv *. And you may be full sure the 
blessed pair will come airly enough.” 

“ May the devil inconvenience the pair of them !” 
ejaculated Jerry. 

“Jerry asthore, don’t curse, but eat your breakfast. 
It ’s a great sin to wish that the very worst enemy ever 
you had, should get a squeeze from that ould chap. 
Sit down, man,” she continued, placing an inverted po- 
tato kish for a chair, “ and instead of cursing any body, 
bless God for giving you so good a meal of elegant po- 
taties and sweet milk, and for giving us both our health, 
and the way of working out a life of some sort, till may 
be a better chance (who knows ?) might turn up.” 

“ May the heavens smile upon you, Nancy ; only for 
you, my courage would be gone entirely.” 

“ That would be the shame, then. You, a man, and 
able for all work and all weathers ! and I — but now 
you ’ve set to work at your breakfast, I ’ll say no more 


6* 


* Possession. 


66 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTEI?. 


to you about that. Do you think you ’ll sleep at Fa- 
ther John’s to-night ]” 

“It ’s little matter where I sleep. Ay — I suppose I 
will — and you, Nancy ; will you stop with Mrs. M‘E- 
vo^, or what way will you manage for yourself ?” 

“ I don’t know yet,” said Nancy, “ hut I hope before 
the day’s at an end, I ’ll make out a berth — But hurry, 
hurry wid your breakfast, dear. I see Wrench, and 
Schofield, and a string of fellows scampering after them, 
down by Ballysaggart bridge — they ’ll be here in ten 
minutes.” 

Jerry, thus admonished, soon despatched his break- 
fast, and had hardly done so, when the agent, the new 
tenant, and their party, galloped up to the door. 

“ Come, come/’ said Wrench, pulling out his watch, 
“ I ’ve plenty of work on hands to-day, and no time to 
lose — Make haste, Jerry Howlaghan, and give up pos- 
session — put out the fire, and tumble those kishes and 
the stool out of the house — the swinging table may stay 
where it is, for that’s a fixture — Is there any thing else 
to put out ? No, ’pon my soul you’ve swept out all 
the furnishes — made a clear house of it — Ha ! pretty 
Nancy ? good morrow to you, sweetheart,” (chucking 
her under the chin), “ I wish Jerry would have let me 
treat him kinder, if it was only for your sake, my col- 
lieen. Come — is all put out ? where’s the key of the 
house door ] Walk out every mother’s son and daugh- 
ter of you all, except Jerry and myself.” 

The house was accordingly cleared of every person 
except Wrench and Jerry, who delivered up possession 
to the agent in the form prescribed by law. This cer- 
emony over, Wrench and Howlaghan walked out, the 
former locked the door, put the key in his pocket, took 
it out again, and unlocking the door inducted Scho- 
field, giving him up the possession with all the requisite 
formalities. The moment he had done so, he mounted 
his horse, and, escorted by the attendants who had fol- 
lowed him, galloped off’ to perform the same ceremony 
in twenty other cottages. 

“Faith I’ve got into a snug consarn, I must say,” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


67 


said Mr. Schofield, surveying the recent additions to 
his new abode. “ To do you justice, Mr. Jerry How- 
laghan, you ? ve put me under obligations to you for the 
way you ’ve settled up the house and offices. ’Pon my 
conscience it was very kind, to say t lie least of it.” 

Nancy, who feared that tins illnatured taunt would 
rouse her brother’s angry passions to some deed of vio- 
lence, hurried him off, as fast as she could, to Dwyer’s 
Gift, where she had arranged to meet her friend, Mrs. 
M‘Evoy, at an early hour. Jerry’s wrath was rising to 
an almost ungovernable pitch ; he was grasping his al- 
peen (the celebrated “ Baus gaun Saggarth”), when 
his sister, seizing his arm, succeeded in forcibly drag- 
ging him away. 

On the road they were met by one of the Knockanea 
tenants, who had been threatened by Wrench with ex- 
pulsion, but in whose case the execution of the sen- 
tence had been averted by the intervention of the Rev. 
Anastasius Montgomery Wrngcote, Lord Ballyvallin’s 
brother-in-law 7 , upon condition that the tenant in ques- 
tion should abandon Popery and embrace the Anglican 
faith. The terms were agreed to, and the convert was 
accordingly secured in the possession of his farm. Pie 
proffered his condolences to Jerry. 

“ But I ’ll tell you, Jerry,” said he, “ how you might 
have kept your berth ; or how, even now, you may get 
into another one. Go to black Anty, as I did, and tell 
him that the light of heaven has broke in upon your 
sowl, and that you are sartin his religion is the right 
one — and — my w 7 ord for it, Jerry ! but he’ll manage to 
pop you into as good a farm as the one you lost: or 
into some other way of living, any how*.” 

Jerry’s reply displayed more energy than piety ; it 
was a sudden and indignant flourish of his Baus gaun 
Saggarth, that warned his compassionate adviser to ab- 
| stain from a repetition of his friendly counsel. 

Nancy was delighted when at last she saw her brother 

* This advice was actually given, almost totidem verbis, by a “ convert,” 
who recently secured the possession of his farm by conformity, to a sufferer 
who had been expelled by a depopulating landlord. 


68 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


safely seated at Father John O’Connor’s kitchen fire- 
side ; she believed that the priest’s influence would be 
more effectual than any other, in controlling the princi- 
pal vice of Jerry’s disposition. 

“ Where are you going now?” she said, with feeling 
of alarm, as he rose from the seat he had occupied be- 
neath the ample chimney. 

“ Only to the stable,” he replied, “ to do a turn for 
the gossoon, who is gone to the village.” 

“ O, very well,” answered Nancy, relapsing into se- 
curity. “ Poor fellow,” said she to the old housekeep- 
er, when her brother had gone out, “ he hasn’t had 
any thing but worrying and fretting for this long time 
past. First, Wrench threatens him, which made us 
unhappy enough ; then, when he went to my Lord to 
try could he make any hand of his Lordship, he was 
pounced on, and worried, and shook, by that cracked 
ould mischief of a Jarman Prince, Mr. Gruffus ; and 
only the nice little widow, Mrs. Mersey, happened to 
be there, I don’t say what Mr. Gruffus wouldn’t have 
done to him. (I ’m sure I wonder that she married 
him ; but the quality takes wonderful fancies betimes.) 
Well, all we had for it was to sell off as fast as we 
could, from time to time ; and indeed, Peggy, it cost 
me less pain to part with half our other things, than 
with poor Bluebell, the cow. Indeed, indeed, you ’d 
think the crature knew the night before that she was 
going to be taken away, for after I milked her she came 
and rubbed her face to me, and lowed as mournful as 
any thing ever you heard.” 

“ The poor crature !” apostrophised Peggy. 

“ But it ’s all a folly to talk,” resumed Nancy, in a low- 
er tone, “ my heart ’s fairly broke about Jerry. I know 
the darkness of his mind, and how the impudence of 
Wrench has vexed and scalded him, and his promise- 
breaking about the allowances, and the saucy talk that 
Schofield has given him, triumphing-like for slipping so 
handily into our farm. His mind is just this minute like a 
boiling pot, and although he doats alive upon myself, and 
would do a hundred things I ’d bid him, yet — Peggy, 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


69 

1 ’m afraid o’ my life that he 11 come across some of them 
Schofields at some unlucky minute, and get into a quar- 
rel, and God only knows what would be the end of it.” 

While Nancy thus detailed her grievances and fears, 
Jerry, left alone, had full leisure to ruminate upon the 
bitterness of their condition. There was one ingredi- 
ent in his sorrow, which he named not to his sister. 
Since his conduct had become more steady, he resolved 
to lay by all he could save for a fortune for Nancy ; he 
had done more than resolve , for he had actually com- 
menced the saving system, and had put together be- 
tween two and three pounds for this purpose, the first 
fruits of his economy and industry. But all these little 
efforts of brotherly affection were now thwarted, and 
all that remained for him was to divide with her the 
proceeds of the sale of his furniture ; the stock upon 
his farm having been seized for the arrears of rent. 

“ Oh, Jerry,” said one of the laborers at Dwyer’s 
Gift, “if your ould father had dipped down his hand 
in his long purse, and paid off the arrears for you, all 
would have been well.” 

“ How could he, poor ould man,” answered Jerry, 
“ and two ministers playing with him*, Parson Gregg 
and Parson Hickson ? Sure didn’t you hear how Gregg 
got a writ of rebellion, as they call it, and broke open 
his door in the middle of the night with a sledge ham- 
man, and whipped him off out of his bed in the wick- 
edest storm of rain that came this season, to the Dublin 
Marshalsea ?” 

“ I heard it, Jerry, sure enough, but I did not know 
the truth of it.” 

“ Well, it ’s true, more ’s the pity. So the ould man 
had to pay the tithes and costs — devil’s cure to them 
for ministers ! they say they ? ve got the Apostles’ relig- 
ion ; but, bad luck to me, if any thing could make me 
believe that Saint Peter ever broke open people’s doors 
in the dead of the night' with crowbars or sledge ham- 
mers ; or that the blessed Saint Paul ever cantered 
about with a troop of dragoons at his heels to knock the 

* “ Playing with Atm;” Hibernie& for “persecuting, or torturing him” 


70 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


tithes out of farmers. No, no; the Apostles were not 
boys of that kidney. But, be that as it may, my fath- 
er was cleaned out to the last penny, and more by to- 
ken he had just paid down my sister Kitty’s fortune ; 
so he had nothing, as the saying \s,from the skin to the 
sky , but the clothes on his back. Poor ould man, he ’d 
have helped me if he could, but indeed there was too 
many playing with him.” 

“ Schofield ’s a middling wealthy chap,” said one of 
the men, “ and has some money saved.” 

“ Schofield ! 5 ’ cried Jerry, throwing down the horse- 
brush, “ don’t mintion his name to me. It was he cir- 
cumvented me entirely, the villain of the world ! it was 
he put up Wrench the first day, to turn me and Nancy 
out — it was he, the ’tarnal rascal, that was jeering me 
this very morning, when he saw me walking out of my 
cabin with a sore and heavy heart, thanking me, mor- 
n-e # , for making it so snug and so nice for him. Oh ! 
I ’ve heard of his doings from them that knows him well. 
He has had his eye upon my farm a longer time than 
what you ’d think — see will it thrive with him now that 
he has got it.” 

All Jerry’s auditors expressed their sympathy in his 
indignant and exasperated feelings; in which, indeed, 
they fully shared. 

“ Pity such a ruffen should be let to enjoy the profits 
of his scheming.” 

“It ’s a murther that the likes of him should put an 
honest boy out of his own.” 

These, and many similar ill-timed and mischievous 
expressions, added fuel to the flame of Jerry’s wrath, 
and kindled it to the fervor of vengeance and hatred, 
which the mild and gentle Nancy above all things 
dreaded. 

After dinner, one of the men to whom Father O’Con- 
nor had given a letter to post at Knockanea, ran to Jer- 
ry with it, saying, “Here, Jerry — will you plase to put 
this in the post for his reverence — I ’m too tired to walk 
to the village — you are fresh ; will you go ?” 

* “ Morri-e signifies literally, “ as it were;” or “pretendingly ." 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


71 


“ With all the pleasure in life,” said Jerry, taking 
the letter; and, 'donning his hat, he set forth on his 
way to the village, which was nearly three miles dis- 
tant. 

“You ’ll be back before nightfall, asy,” said the man. 
Jerry nodded, and walked off. 


CHAPTER IX. 


“ Qu’est ce quo c’est que vous avez de nouveau ?” { Ah, dites moi !’ “ Une 
bagatelle^l’histoire d’un cheval.” 

TaBERT1ER9. 

The following morning, before sunrise, Wrench, 
whose habits were early, and who had now risen in or- 
der to take a journey of some length into a neighbor- 
ing county, was riding along the road between Knock- 
anea and Dwyer’s Gift ; his stout, clean-limbed, amb- 
ling nag, bearing marks of the domestic care that ena- 
bles a horse to show action on the road ; and his ple- 
thoric leathern knapsack and saddle-bags evincing that 
the worthy traveler had made all requisite provision for 
equestrian comfort. He was accompanied by an un- 
derling, named Jobkins, a “ driver” on the Knockanea 
estate, who was mounted on a broken down racehorse, 
whose occasional fiery curvettes and bounds gave Job- 
kins some trouble, and contrasted ludicrously with the 
strong propensity to stumble that the poor brute dis- 
played, and which compelled his rider to keep a short 
I grasp of the rein to prevent the steed from falling on 
: his knees every five minutes. 

Their road lay rather in a western direction ; so that 
Wrench, who had, strange to say, sufficient taste to ad- 
mire the sunrise, was constantly obliged to turn his 
face en croupe , in order to enjoy the golden glories of 
the early east. 

“ ’Tis elegant ! beautiful, certainly !” said he, as the 


72 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


sun emerged in a volume of golden radiance from the 
narrow gorge between two mountain peaks ; “ isn’t it 
an elegant sight, Jobkins?” 

“ What ’s an elegant sight ?” demanded Jobkins, 
whose mind did not happen at the moment to sympa- 
thize particularly with nature’s sublimities. 

“ Why, the sunrise, the sunrise, man, 5 ’ said Wrench. 

“ Umph !” muttered Jobkins, “ the sun rises every 
day in the year — there ’s nothing new in that.” 

“ Do turn about and look, though ; the sky seems 
on fire between Slievekillig and Bennabrach.” 

“May be so,” returned Jobkins, “but Slievekillig 
and Bennabrach are both behind my back, and if I 

turned about to look at them, this d d ould blood 

would be down upon his knees, and myself would be 
spilt upon the road. Weary on him, for a stumbling 
brute — I must keep my two eyes skivered into his two 
ears, for if I cease to mind him for a minute, down he 
goes.” 

“ Why do you keep such a beast for a roadster?” 
asked Wrench, whose mind was now withdrawn from 
solar movements to the more congenial subject of the 
foundered steed’s defects. 

“ Och, 1 5 ve a rason for it,” answered Jobkins, wink- 
ing shrewdly ; “ It isn’t for nothing I ’d keep him. If 
you saw him when I got him a fortnight ago, devil a 
morsel was upon his bones but the skin. I ’ve brought 
him into flesh most wonderful.” 

“Curse him, he isn’t worth his feed,” said Wrench, 
contemptuously glancing at the animal ; “ he 5 s only fit 
for dog’s-meat.” 

“ I think I’ve a right to know something of such 
matters, Mr. Wrench. It isn’t a month since I cleared 
fifty pounds by a pair of horses that were three times 
worse. I picked them up for a song from Lord Clan- 
gollock’s groom, who had half a mind, as you said this 
minute, to shoot them for dog’s-meat. Well, Sir, I 
fed them, and pampered them, and doctored their teeth 
with a hot iron — (faith I clapped four false teeth into 
one of them), and between oat-meal, and praties, and 


THE husba>:j>huntkr. 


73 


new eggs, and porter, and what not, — troth, I had them 
as sleek as mice, as plump as Hampshire pigs, and as 
humorsome as dancing-masters. I declare to you, Sir. 
if you did hut look at them, they ’d begin to neigh and 
caper like a couple of shy covvlts. When my pair of 
beasts were doctored up for sale,. I had them led, every 
foot of the road, to the city of Cork, with their knees 
cased up in leather caps, to guard against ould tricks. 

! I kept them a couple of days in a private stable, to re- 
1 cover any little falling off they might have had from the 
I journey, and about five or six o’clock the second even- 
1 ing — ha ! ha ! ha ! I got the bellman, with his ring-a- 
|j ding-a-dingo, to proclaim an auction of a couple of ele- 
gant hunters, six and seven years ould, to be peremp- 
torily sould, being the property of an officer who was 
laving the country immediately. Troth, in less than 
half an hour my stable was full of raw spooneys — young 
grocers, or attorneys’ clerks, and such like gulls — that 
wanted to cut a smart flash, and ride down to Glanmire 
of a Sunday, or after the hounds now and then. My 
son, Tom — (you know Tom? he’s in Trinity College 
— a cute, pleasant wag, is Tom Jobkins, though his 
father says it) — my son, Tom, played the part of the 
officer going abroad ; he got an ould military cap, and 
rowled an ould red yeomanry sash round his blue frock- 
coat, and made a bow like a colonel of dragoons, to the 
company. Indeed, he had greatly the look of an offi- 
cer, for he ’s tall, and as upright as a ramrod, and sports 
bowld whiskers. So he swore, like blazes, that there 
wasn’t two more varmint horses in the kingdom ; and 
tould of all the ditches and walls they had carried him 
across. And the horses played their parts in great 
style, too : — ‘ That ’s a handsome bay,’ says a smart 
young baker, touching him gently with the whip. So 
the bay began to neigh, and cut capers, and the black 
began to prance and caper for company. Myself was 
auctioneer ; I put them up at twenty-five pounds for 
the bay, and twenty-eight pounds for the black, and 
the townsbred fools bid like shot against each other, 
till the beasts were knocked down to one Condon and , 
VOL. n, 7 


74 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


one Murphy, for five-and-thirty pounds a piece, he! 
he ! he !” 

“And I suppose,” said Wrench, “they weren’t 
worth a crown a piece ]” 

“ Och, devil sweep the crown ! Why, in less than 
a week, the bay had stumbled a dozen times, and 
threw Condon against the pier of a gate that nearly did 
his job for him ; and Murphy shot the black to feed 
hounds, and swore hard that he wouldn't buy a horse 
in a hurry again from an officer laving the kingdom . ■ 
Didn’t we do it nately though ?” 

“ O, very neatly. And pray, Mr. Jobkins, allow me 
to ask you if the bay horse you tell me you sold Con- 
don, was the same that you told me you had got for 
sale, and that you wanted me to buy about a month 
ago ? if so, I have to thank you for your kind inten- 
tions.” 

“Mr. Wrench, Mr. Wrench, and is it you that asks 
me that 1 and is it you that w'ould suspect Paul Job- 
kins of meaning to play you a trick ? 1 didn’t expect 
your suspicions, Mr. Wrench, and I didn’t desarve 
them. An honest man, like myself, will always make 
a difference between friends and strangers, Mr. 
Wrench. But that ’s a nice cut of a nag that you ’re 
on, and I don’t think you have him very long; did 
you buy him at JCildorrery fair ?” 

« No.” 

“ Where else did you get him, then?” 

“ Oh, that ’s best known to myself.” 

“ Did you buy him — eh ?” looking knowingly. 

“ Why do you ask me that ?” 

“Och! ’pon my sowl, I’ll wager any money that 
you got him from Now did I guess the mark ?” 

“ Why how can I tell ] you haven’t named any 
one.” 

“ You got him, then,” said Jobkins, with the timid 
air of one who ventures to make a remark to a supe- 
rior, doubtful as to the reception it may meet, — you 
got him then from Schofield, as a compliment for 
managing to put him into Boney Howlaghan’s farm ?” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


75 


“ Who the devil dared to tell you that, Sir?” said 
Wrench angrily. 

“ Och, whist, Mr. Wrench, my jewel,” replied Job- 
kins, pursing up his eyes and mouth with a humorous 
expression ; “ more than Paul Jobkins knows that, for 
Schofield whispered it to Sammy Wrightson last Mon- 
day night, when the pair of them got a little flustered.” 

“Then the d 1 may twist his neck,” said Wrench ; 

“he told him an infernal lie.” 

“ If he did,” remarked Jobkins, by way of softening 
the offence, “ he wasn't so much to blame, being some- 
what elevated at the time.” 

“Mind your horse! blood alive, mind your horse, 
Paul Jobkins !” exclaimed Wrench, as his companion’s 
steed made an unexpected bound from the dyke, at a 
sharp angle of the road, and rushed with such sudden 
force against his own more manageable nag as to throw 
the rider off his equilibrium. 

“ Gently, gently,” said the startled Jobkins, patting 
his steed upon the neck — “ gently, gently, Bruiser — 
Soho, there now, my man — what’s the matter?” 

Wrench’s nag continued to shy and snort, and Job- 
kins, descending from his own horse, whom neither 
spurring nor coaxing could urge forward, beheld, on 
advancing past the angle of the road, the body of a 
man lying stretched upon the grass at the road-side, 
the face down, and the right arm torn, as if mangled 
by a heavy fall. 

“Who the devil can it be ?” exclaimed Wrench; 
“ w hoever he is, he gave our horses a good fright, and 
nearly threw us.” 

“ Some rascal, I suppose,” said Jobkins, “ that fell 
over the hedge, drunk, coming home from the fair last 
night.” 

“ He’s very well dressed,” observed Wrench ; “ assist 
him up, Paul, and see who he is.” 

Jobkins obeyed ; and what was his astonishment, 
and that of Wrench, on recognising the body of Scho- 
field, not drunk, but dead, and evidently murdered by 


76 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


the blow of a stone, or some heavy weapon, on his 
temple, where the skull was fractured. 

“ Heaven preserve us !” cried Jobkins ; “ it isn’t two 
minutes since you prayed that the devil might twist his 
neck, and look at him there for you now, Mr. Wrench.” 

“ Heaven forgive us all our sins — this is. dreadful, 
Jobkins — I’ll lay my life that that hell-born, blood- 
thirsty scoundrel, Boney Howlaghan, did this — Oh, no- 
body else can be the murderer. Ride as hard as you 
can to the police station — or stay — my nag is better — 
I ’ll ride there, and do you stay here with the corpse 
till I return.” 

Jobkins dared neither disobey nor remonstrate, for 
his principal was peremptory ; although he liked as lit- 
tle as any man to be left alone with the body of a mur- 
dered person. 

“ He needn’t have left me to watch,” said he, to 
himself; “ the corpse can’t run away, and if any of 
the murderer’s friends meant to hide it, they wouldn’t 
have left it here till this hour.” 

But his anxiety on this score was speedily dispelled 
by Wrench, who changed his mind, and said, 

“ Don’t stay there, Paul, but ride off to Father 
O’Connor’s — is it not there that Jerry Howlaghan was 
to stop, till he sailed for America?” 

“I don’t know,” answered Jobkins, “ but I heard 
so.” 

“ Ay, ay ; like enough — the priest’s house is a very 
fit nest for a murderer. Come along, and when we 
get to the police station, you shall take a lot of them 
to Dwyer’s Gift, and I ’ll gallop over to Justice Mad- 
den, to get a warrant to search the priest’s house. It ’s 
a d — d pity that I ain’t in the commission of the peace 
myself.” 

All this while they had been trying to get their 
horses past the part of the road where the murdered 
body lay, and they had now, with considerable difficul- 
ty, succeeded in doing so. 

When they arrived at Dwyer’s Gift, Nancy, who had 
spent the preceding night there, had risen, early as the 


THE II US BA N ])-H UNT Ell. 


77 


hour was. Her mind had been thrown into a state of 
intolerable restlessneess and agony by her brother’s pro* 
traded absence. She had sate up until long past 
twelve the preceding night, in expectation of his re- 
turn from the village; but hour after hour passed, and 
yet he came not. At length the old housekeeper per- 
suaded her to go to bed, in the hope that repose might 
allay the mental torture she endured. But sleep came 
not at her bidding ; and after spending some hours 
of inexpressible misery, she rose, and had scarcely de- 
scended to the kitchen, when Jobkins, the police, and 
Wrench, who had managed to procure the neces- 
sary warrant in an incredibly short time, knocked 
loudly at the door, demanding admission with raised 
voices. 

“ What do you want, gentlemen ?” said the house- 
keeper, protruding her face from the window of her 
dormitory. 

“ To search for, seize, and apprehend the body of 
Jeremiah Howlaghan, to abide his trial at the next as- 
sizes, for the murder of Peter Schofield ” 

Nancy heard no more ; the apartment seemed to 
swim before her eyes ; she sank on the floor in a faint- 
ing fit. 

“ Wait for one moment, gentlemen/’ said the house- 
keeper, and I ’ll be down and open the door ; it ’s best/* 
she reflected, “ to let the fellows in, for as Jerry isn’t 
here, the delay can only sarve him ; and maybe he 
didn’t lay a hand near Schofield at all.” 

“ If you don’t open the door at once, we must 
break it,” said Wrench. “ Paul” (in a low voice to 
Jobkins), “ is there any body watching at the other 
side of tiie house, to prevent his escaping at the other 
door 1” 

“ Yes ; Jack M‘Grath and Billy Jenkins.” 

“ Right — Come mistress — must we knock with a 
sledge ?” 

But as he spoke, the door was opened by the house** 
keeper, and forthwith the whole party entered. They 
hunted through every portion of the house except Q’-* 
7 * 


78 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


Connor’s dormitory, where the priest was still in bed ; 
and having completed their researches elsewhere, 
Wrench tapped at the door of the bed-room, desiring 
Jobkins and the rest of the parly to remain on the stairs, 
and observing that he wished, so far as his duty permit- 
ted, to act civilly. 

“ Who is there ?” said the voice of O’Connor. 

“ Mr. Wrench.’* 

“Mr. Wrench? Sir, you are unusually early. To 
what can 1 impute the honor of this visit?” 

“ May I enter your room, Sir?” said Wrench. 

“ Undoubtedly, Sir, if you ’ve business with me.” 

“ My business,” said Wrench entering, is a cursedly 
unpleasant one ; Peter Schofield has been murdered.” 

“ Murdered ?” repeated O’Connor, starting up in 
his bed, “ God bless me 1 When, where, or by whom ?” 

“ As to the when ,” replied Wrench, “ it must have 
been last night some time ; as to the where . his body 
was found at six o’clok this morning, or a little after, by 
Paul Jobkins and myself in a dyke at the roadside at 
Ballymagner Cross ; and as to the person by whom he 
met his death, my own suspicions rest so strongly upon 
Boney Howlaghan, that I got a warrant for his appre- 
hension this morning from Madden, and I came here, 
having heard that he was staying in your house.” 

“Now the Lord forbid,” said O’Connor, “ that Jerry 
should be the delinquent !” 

“ I ’m afraid there are no doubts about the matter,” 
answered Wrench ; “ I know that ever since he heard 
that the farm he formerly occupied was promised to 
Schofield, he has from time to time uttered threats, in 
the presence of different persons, that it never should 
thrive with him. ft is a horrible affair, Sir, and 1 wish 
you a good morning. 1 owe you an apology for this 
untimely intrusion ; but I deemed it right to let you 
know the purpose that brought the police here so early ; 
and it was also necessary I should search your room — 
an office I did not wish to commit to an inferior.” 

“ Much obliged for your polite consideration,” said 
O’Connor, as Wrench departed with his men to search 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


all the cabins in the vicinage where they deemed it at 
all likely that Jerry would take refuge. Placards, de- 
scribing his appearance, were extensively posted up; 
and an express, detailing the lamentable event, was de- 
spatched forthwith to Dublin Castle. 

Meanwhile, Nancy had wakened from her fainting 
fit to a state of stupor. She did not seem conscious 
that any thing remarkable had happened ; she did not 
converse with the people in the kitchen ; but sat by the 
fire all day with her head supported on her hand, mere- 
ly muttering at intervals, “ I wonder what keeps Jer- 
ry so long — he ought to be back before this.” 




CHAPTER X. 

Martin . — Where do you say we are to go, Sir ? 

Archer . — Round the hill, and along the side of the stream ; the fisherman 
says he often lurches about there, and is surely to be found in the neighbor- 
hood. 

Martin . — I think the fisherman deceives you. Sir. 

Archer. — What, varlet, d ? ye talk ? Do as I tell thee, bring the lads to, th* 
river-side, await my coming, and say nothing. 

Martin — To winch side of the river, Sir? 

Archer . — Plague on the scoundrel 1 how stupid he is ! To both sides ; to 
both sides. [Exit Martin.] 

The Doubts of a Day. 

The Coroner’s jury returned a verdict of murder 
by some person or persons unknown.’’ But although 
such a verdict was inevitable in the absence of all di- 
rect evidence, yet the popular belief that attached the 
criminality to Howl-aghan, remained in full force, and 
seemed to acquire confirmation from his sudden disap- 
pearance and protracted absence. 

Wrench’s efforts to discover his retreat were actively 
continued ; be scoured the country with his escort for 
two successive days, and his force had received some 
auxiliaries from the friends of the deceased. On the 
second evening the party were returning home towards 
night-fall, when their attention was suddenly arrested 


80 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


by the violent barking of a terrier belonging to Jobkins, 
which had followed the body of horsemen the whole 
day. 

Hark to, Boxer! hark!” exclaimed his master, 
reining in his steed, [not the racer he had ridden the 
preceding day ;] “ hark to Boxer! lie has got the scent 
of something — hoix ho ! give us more of your music, 
little varmint !” 

The barking suddenly sank into a short, angry yelp, 
and then ceased altogether. 

“ Get into that furze-brake, Billy M'Grath, and see 
what the terrier ’s at,” said Jobkins ; “ Ton my song, 
that last stave he gave us, sounded much as if some- 
body was throttling him.” 

Billy M'Grath endeavored to obey, accompanied by 
half a dozen boys, who tried to force their way through 
the high, thick, and matted furze, that presented an al- 
most impenetrable barrier at every step. Every one 
of them whistled, and called the little dog, but their 
calls were not answered by either the appearance of 
Boxer, or a note of his music. 

“I suppose he has got into a fox-earth or a rabbit- 
hole,” said one. 

“If he has, you may whistle in vain ; he won't come 
till he plases, and we needn’t be tearing our clothes,” 
said another. 

They advanced in different directions, through the 
tortuous paths of the furzy labyrinth, until Billy 
M'Grath caught the eye of one of his comrades, through 
one of the bushes — its expression was wild, almost hor- 
rible ; he laid his finger on his lips, and with his other 
hand beckoned to M'Grath to follow him. They then 
crept as silently for a few paces as the large obstructing 
bushes would permit, and suddenly stopped, as 
M'Grath’s arm was strongly pressed by the hand of 
his comrade, who pointed to the aperture at the bottom 
of an old lime-kiln, through which they distinctly saw 
the terrier violently struggling to get free from the grasp 
of a man who held his mouth close shut, to prevent 
him from barking. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


81 


“ That’s Boney*Howlaghan,” whispered the conduc- 
tor, in a low, shuddering tone. 

“ May be not,” replied M‘Grath in a whisper, “ we 
don’t see his face.” 

“ Yerra who else would it be ?” rejoined the man. 

“ But any how he doesn’t see us — we are hid by the 
bushes. I’ll stop here, Billy ; and do you go to Job- 
kins and bring him, and Wrench, and all the men that ’s 
there, to surround the ould kiln, for fear Boney would 
escape through the brake, and he asily might, it ’s so 
tangled, and the evening’s getting dark. Go, Billy ac- 
ushla, and make haste back.” 

M‘Grath accordingly departed for the men, who en- 
tered the brake and arranged themselves round the old 
kiln with as much expedition as the nature of the - 
ground permitted. The kiln was, to use the expres- 
sion of one of the party, quite smothered in furze- 
bushes. 

When all retreat was deemed sufficiently cut off, 
Wrench, Jobkins, and M‘Grath, suddenly dropped into 
the kiln from the opening above ; its miserable occu- 
pant, hearing the approaching noise half a second be^ 
fore, rushed out through the lime-door, or small lower 
opening, and had scarcely proceeded three yards, be- 
fore his further progress was intercepted by the origi- 
nal discoverer of his retreat and two of the police. 

It was Jerry Howlaghan. 

“Hah ! you murthering ruffian !” exclaimed Wrench, 
“so you’re caught. Handcuff him, boys. And what 
the devil tempted you to do the deed ?” 

“ It was the devil, surely,” answered Jerry. 

“ So you don’t deny it, then ? indeed you needn’t.” 

“ I don’t deny any thing,” said Jerry, with a groan 
of anguish. 

“Then you ’ll swing for it, plase heaven,” said Job- 
kins. 

“ Oh, what ’ll become of my poor Nancy !” moaned 
the culprit. 

“ Better befits you to think what’ll become of your- 
self. You feel the devil an’ all for Nancy, to be sure 


~82 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


* 


— oh, yes — you ’re grown mighty tindher-hearted all of 
a sudden, though your tindherness never prevented 
you from killing an honester man than ever you were.” 

One of the party compassionately handed the crimi- 
nal some bread, observing that he looked very faint ; 
in truth he had not eaten a morsel for two days. They 
marched him on to the public-house in the village of 
Knockanea, where he remained in the custody of the 
police, while a carriage was being got ready to convey 
him to the county gaol. During this interval, O’Con- 
nor arrived. 

“ And is it you, Jerry Howlaghan,” said he, “ that I 
see in the custody of the police, under a charge of 
murder ?” 

Jerry’s eyes fell on the ground, and he was silent. 

“ Are you guilty?” asked O’Connor, in a low tone, 
which reached no other ears than those of Jerry. 

“ I am,” said Howlaghan, aloud, and looking round 
him, “ I am ; may God have marcy on my sinful, sinful 
sowl. I killed him — I don’t want to conceal it, for I know 
that whether I did or not, I ’d be hanged as I desarve. 
I ’ve felt ever since I did the deed as if I was in hell ; 
and though I made a rush to save dear life, I can’t say 
I was very sorry to be caught by the police.” 

“ Unfortunate man !” exclaimed O'Connor, “ how 
often have I warned you to guard your fierce and sav- 
age temper from temptation.” 

“ You did — you did, an hundred times — it ’s no use 
talking of that now — my doom is cast, in this world 
and the next.” 

“ Oh, Jerry, do not say the next — grievous and 
damning as your heinous crime has been, yet a con- 
trite sorrow, through the virtue of the all-atoning 
blood ” 

“ Eisth — eisth anish*!” exclaimed the miserable crim- 
inal, in agony, waving his hand to impose silence on the 
priest ; “oh, Sir, there was a time when I loved to lis- 
ten to those words, before the devil had got the entire 
hould over me that he has now— but oh ! to hear you 


* Eisth! eisth anish! — Hush! hush now. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


83 


talk to a murdberer like me, of the pure, and high, and 
holy things of heaven — it pierces my heart like a 
knife.? 

“ Unhappy man, although you have richly earned 
hell, yet you must not forget that you are still within 
the reach of God’s pardon ” 

“ Don’t talk of that,” said Jerry, “ my mind may be 
quieter when I ’m in the gaol.” — The priest was silent, 
thinking that he might injure the cause he was desirous 
to advance, by pressing the sacred subject on the cul- 
prit, until, as he intimated, his mind should have become 
more calm, and better adapted to receive the religious 
-impressions O’Connor was anxious to impart. 

“I ’ll tell you,” said Howlaghan, after a pause, dur- 
ing which he appeared as if collecting resolution to 
make the detail, “ I ’ll tell you how this mischief hap- 
pened — I freely bear evidence against myself, so I think 
you may believe what I say of that unfortunate crature 
I killed, and I scorn to belie him when he ’s dead. 

“The evening before last, I was carrying a letter to 
the post, that one of the boys at Dwyer’s Gift handed 
me ; and as I was walking along with my stick in one 
hand and my letter in the other, who should I meet but 
i Schofield, marching along the road, as if the world was 
his own. He was something flustered, I believe, for if 
he wasn’t, he’d hardly have given me so much impu- 
dence. 

“‘ You needn’t make way for me,’ says he, as if I 
was shoving aside from him, ‘ there ’s plenty of room 
on the road for us both.’ 

“‘I’m not making way for the likes of you,’ says I, 
i houlding on my own course. 

“ ‘ Faith I think you made way for me this morning, 
and no thanks,’ says he again, stopping short; ‘and 
1 when you had very little mind to make way for me ei- 
ther. You thought to have every thing your own 
way,’ says he, ‘ and to hould my Lord’s ground 
against his lordship, and against my good friend Mr. 
Wrench, and myself; but you see you weren’t able, 
my man ; you weren’t able.’ 


84 


TUBS HUSBAttDHUNTEfc. 


“ Wilh that, 1 made an offer to hit him on the shins 
with Bans gaun Saggarth; but, tipsy as he was, he 
hopped aside, and managed to escape the blow. In- 
deed I won't belie him — he didn't offer to strike me 
then, but stopped with his back against the corner of 
the ditch, laughing at me; and that vexed me worse. 

“ c You ’ve given up the farming business now/ says 
he, ‘and you’ve taken up the thrade of a postboy, 1 
see/ says he, looking at the letter in my hand ; ‘ it ’s 
very good work for you, Boney ; and pray what ’s 
Miss Nancy’s employment to be?’ 

“ From the first time the fellow began with his prate, 
I felt all in a shiver, as if the devil was coming to* 
tempt me; and faith the ould Tempter knew his time ; 
my farm was taken from me, myself and my shisther 
were thrown upon the wide w orld ; it was Schofield 
was working up Wrench to do it all, who was willing 
enough to be worked ; my heart was scalded enough, 
for being turned out, and sent adrift ; and here on the 
lonesome road, with my mind like a stormy sea, I was 
laughed at and jeered by the fellow that was surely 
half the cause of my misfortunes. The devil was 
W'atching, to be sure, as he always is, and he caught 
the right moment for his devilry. Schofield had no 
sooner mintioned Nancy’s name, than I wheeled Baus 
gaun Saggarth at his skull, crying out, ‘You cursed 
ruffen ! you ’ve done your best to ruin us — how dare 
you draw Nancy Howlaghan’s name through your 
mouth, after plundering herself and her brother ?’ 

“ And with that — may God forgive my sow! ! I hit 
him on the temple. He rolled down the bank, stone 
dead. I don't think he lived one minute after. I 
lay down, and riz his face, to see were there any 
signs of life, but there wasn’t e’er a sign at all. I 
felt as if the devil was inside me, and so he surely 
was at that same moment. The first one I thought 
of was my poor ould father, and the second was 
Nancy. ‘ Their son and brother shan’t be hanged if 
lean help it/ says I to myself; and with that I cut 
away, thinking every noise I heard was the steps of 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


85 


the police running after me, till I got into the ould 
lime-kiln in the furze-brake. And oh! mavrone !' 
how I spent the night, and last night ! There ’s ne’er 
a one listening to me now that would wish the worst 
enemy they have to spend two such nigfrts. I shiver- 
ed like a man in a fever ; my body was could and hot 
by turns, and my mind was broiling like hell. And 
every time the wind stirred the bushes, I shut my 
eyes, for I felt half sure that Schofield’s ghost would 
haunt me.” 

The murderer groaned with unutterable anguish 
as he ended his statement ; and just at that instant 
the vehicle arrived, in which he was to proceed forth- 
with to the county gaol. “ I would tell you,” he said 
to O’Connor, “ not to tell poor Nancy 1 was caught, 
only that I know she ’ll surely hear it from some of the 
neighbors, and it ’s better she should hear it from 
your reverence.” 

Jerry was put into the conveyance, and departed, 
leaving O’Connor grieved to the very bottom of his 
soul, and compelled to pity the culprit whom he was 
also obliged to condemn. 

Some of the public newspapers recorded the event 
in the following terms: — “ State of the Country — 
More Tranquillity — Barbarous and Inhuman Mur- 
der. On Thursday morning last, as Mr. Wrench, 
Lord BallyvaHin’s agent, accompanied by Mr. Jobkins, 
under-agent, were proceeding at an early hour along 
the road at Ballymagner Cross, they found the mur- 
dered body of a highly respectable farmer, named 
Schofield, on the bank at the road-side. The mur- 
derer has been discovered ; his name is Howlaghan, 
and we understand that he has long been distinguish- 
ed for his reckless ferocity in party fights. No con- 
ceivable cause can be assigned for the atrocious deed, 
except that the deceased was a protestant, and that 
the priest-ridden peasantry of this unhappy kingdom 
are always too easily hounded on to acts of outrage 
against the orderly, the peaceable, and well-conducted 
portion of the community. Schofield was an excel- 

VOL. ir. 8 


86 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


lent character in every respect, and has left a wife and 
children to lament his loss.” 

O’Connor conveyed the painful intelligence to the 
unhappy Nancy, who now seemed quite awake to all 
the horrors of her situation. He also wrote forthwith 
to Mrs. Kavanagh, with a full detail of all the facts 
connected with the awful transaction, and particularly 
specified the numerous exertions that Nancy had 
made to avert any outbreak of vengeance on the part 
of her brother. He concluded his letter by suggest- 
ing, that in Nancy’s forlorn and destitute condition, it 
would be a valuable deed of charity to afford her the 
asylum of Castle Kavanagh, in any situation in which 
the poor girl could make herself useful. Mrs. Kava- 
nagh replied the next post, and adopted the sugges- 
tion with benevolent alacrity; directing that Nancy 
should forthwith be committed to the hospitality of 
Mrs. M‘Evoy, the housekeeper. But Nancy declined 
accepting Mrs. Kavanagh’s kindness till the following 
spring ; “ when,” said she, “ I will go to the good lady 
if I live; for I then shall have no brother Jerry. As 
long as they let him live, I will stay with him in gaol, 
and give him all the comfort that I can; and may be 
it will be better for his soul that I should talk to him. 
Och ! God help us ! What is this world worth ? what 
is all that ? s in it worth, if we lose heaven ?” 

And, bent on her mission of Christian and sisterly 
love, she proceeded to the gaol ; where, day after day, 
she devoted herself with untiring affection to her 
wretched brother; doing the best that her unpretend- 
ing skill could dictate, both for his body and his soul. 

O’Connor had another duty to perform. 

“ I will go,” said he, “ to Knockanea, and see Lord 
Bally vallin on this business. I know I shall have an 
ally in this, or any other benevolent work, in his lord- 
ship’s chaplain, Mr. Walton. Walton is an honor to 
the Protestant church ; his virtues are in constant, ac- 
tive exercise; and not the least of them is his warm 
benevolence.” 

On arriving at Knockanea, O Connor first inquired 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


87 


for the Rev. Mr. Walton. On being shewn into that 
gentleman’s study, he commenced by observing, that 
he had an appeal to make to Lord Bally vallin-, in which 
he trusted he should have the advantage of Mr. Wal- 
ton’s co-operation. 

“ Unquestionably,” answered the Protestant clergy- 
man, “ if my concurrence can be conscientiously af- 
forded, and if it be likely to produce any benefit.” 

“ Of that, my friend,” replied O’Connor, “ you 
“shall judge for yourself. You have heard of the mur- 
der of Schofield by Howlaghan. It is an awful and 
horrible deed, which admits of no justification. But 
you have not perhaps learned, that it was in a very 
great measure provoked ; partly by the unfortunate 
state of society, which visits the peasantry with pun- 
ishment for their voles at elections, and partly by the 
insolent triumph with which Schofield treated Howla- 
ghan, whom he had supplanted in his farm.” — O’Con- 
nor then drew a hasty, yet impressive picture of the 
sufferings sustained by Howlaghan for the exercise of 
his elective franchise, which he represented as being 
too common a case among the humbler class of free- 
holders ; and he repeated the account which the cul- 
prit himself had given, of the provocation under which 
he had taken Schofield’s life. 

“ Now,” continued O’Connor, “ in all this, there is 
every thing to be lamented, and every thing to be 
condemned ; but, alas ! corrupt as human nature is, 
there is unfortunately not much to excite our astonish- 
ment. That oppression and insult should drive those 
who sustain their infliction, to a dreadful and violent 
vengeance, the history of mankind in all ages has 
taught us to expect. What I want you to do, my 
good Sir, is calmly and respectfully to represent these 
things to Lord Bally vallin ; and to unite with me in 
most earnestly imploring his lordship to cut off an ex- 
ceedingly prolific source of frightful crime, by mitigat- 
ing the severity with which his unfortunate tenants 
have been treated.” 

“ And my cordial support you shall command,” 


88 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


said the reverend gentleman ; “ my religion, Mr. 
O’Connor, instructs me to love all men ; to advance 
the legitimate benefit of all, and to do to all my fel- 
lows as I would they should do unto me.’’ 

“ Tha Tyour religion so teaches you, I have not a 
doubt,” said O’Connor. 

“ And that your’s so teaches you,” replied Walton, 
“ 1 have had fifty proofs. Now, how lucky for us all 
it is, that Lord Bally vallin is not an absentee. If he 
were, these evils might continue for ever unchecked, 
and extend beyond all reach of cure ; for cold and 
powerless indeed is the appeal that meets the ear from 
distant scenes, from which protracted absence has long 
weaned our sympathies ; cold, powerless, and ineffect- 
ual, compared to the actual sight of the victims of 
oppression, crushed and writhing under the infliction 
of mingled cruelty and insult. We must bring the 
sufferers to Lord Bally vallin. I can almost undertake 
to promise that his lordship will divest his generous 
mind of all political prejudice on a subject so awfully 
important, and take effectual means to check for the 
future, all attempts to persecute his tenants. I verily 
believe, that though many of the crimes that are com- 
mitted in Ireland are the offspring of that natural de- 
pravity of whieh every society of men presents exam- 
ples, yet oppression, such as Howlaghan experienced 
from Wrench and Schofield, is the parent of a numer- 
ous class of outrages.” 

The two clergymen then proceeded to the drawing- 
room, where they made their united appeal in be- 
half of the people, in behalf of the cause of huma- 
nity, to Lord Ballyvallin. His Lordship received 
their application in excellent humor, as his spirits 
were cheered by a recent relaxation of the pains of the 
gout, to which he was frequently a martyr. He Was 
deeply struck with the circumstances of Howlaghan’s 
case, all the particulars of which he investigated with 
attentive interest. He was silent for several minutes, 
during which his mind was disturbed by various con- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


89 


Aiding emotions. At length his naturally noble dis- 
position triumphed. 

“ God help my poor countrymen !” said he, “ their 
sufferings are great. It must henceforth be my duty 
and my labor to soften, instead of increasing, the evils 
that afflict them. Injustice, sad injustice, appears to 
have been done. I must look after the sufferers. 
And that girl, that angelic Nancy, where is she ? her 
future provision shall be my especial care. I shall 
minutely investigate the conduct of Wrench, through- 
out the whole business of Howlaghan’s farm, and 
should I find your opinion of that gentleman’s merits 
borne out, I shall immediately dismiss him from my 
agency.” 

O’Connor warmly thanked Lord Ballyvallin, and 
shortly after took his leave. 

Lord Ballyvallin performed his promise to the very 
letter. He inquired after the tenants who had been 
expelled. Some of them were worthless men, whose 
minds and habits had been brutalized by the demoral- 
izing traffic of illicit distillation. Their expulsion was 
a benefit to the estate, by removing their contaminat- 
ing influence. Others were industrious and honest, and 
their landlord found means to support them until 
circumstances enabled them to emigrate ; or until, 
as in some cases happened, his lordship had the 
power to reinstate them in their former farms. 

Wrench, whose mal-practices could not stand the 
test of inquiry, was dismissed from the agency. 

Nancy felt most deeply grateful for the interest 
Lord Ballyvallin expressed for her condition, and 
the care which he generously promised to take of her 
fortunes. 

“ Oh !” she exclaimed, i( that the villain of the 
world, Wrench, should have ever gone between my 
lord and us !” 

She remained in incessant attendance on her bro- 
ther, until the Spring Assizes should decide his fate ; 
consoling, exhorting, and encouraging him to com- 
punction for his awful crime; directing his mind to 
8 * 


90 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


the merits of the One Atoning Mediator, and the 
powerful intercession of His glorified servants. 

He suffered the penalty of his offence ; and even 
Nancy, agonized as was her gentle and affectionate 
soul at his early, melancholy fate — aggrieved though 
she had been by the sufferings that had goaded him 
on to the commission of the fatal deed for which he 
paid the forfeit of his life; she, even she , the tender, 
faithful, and devoted sister, could not but acknowledge 
the justice of his sentence. For she knew that the 
dictates of religion enjoined that he should have 
“ borne, and foreborne, till the end — and yet more,^ 
she knew the divine decree that, “ whoso sheddeth 
man's blood, by man also shall his blood be shed.’* 

Of the night before his execution, he had spent the 
greater portion in earnest prayer. Let us hope that 
his repentance was sincere and acceptable ! 

Nancy availed herself, with thankfulness, of Lord 
Ballyvallin’s bounty, which she immediately applied to 
the relief of her father’s necessities ; but she preferred 
a residence at Castle Kavanagh to one at Knockanea, 
and became Isabella’s attendant. In this asylum she 
learned, by degrees, in the language of a distinguish- 
ed French penitent, “ to acquire contentment, but not 
happiness*.” 

* It is habitual with anti-Irish partisans to deny, altogether, that suffering 
is entailed on the Irish people from the system of wholesale ejectment, so 
frequently practised by landlords. I shall not, on this subject, give one word 
of my own ; 1 shall content myself with submitting the following testimo- 
ny of a witness whose evidence is beyond question or suspicion, Mr. Leslie 
Foster : — 

“ In what manner does this dis-peopling of particular estates tend to the 
dis-peopling of Ireland ?” 

u Because it places the surplus population of those estates in circumstan- 
ces of such misery that the number must eventually disappear.” — [Minutes 
of evidence before the Lords’ Committee, in February 1825, p. 59.], 

I beg to add a more lengthened extract from the same right honorable gen- 
tleman’s evidence : — 

M State to the committee the opinion you formed on the origin and causes 
of this?” 

“My opinion was and is, that in Limerick, and the adjacent parts of the 
counties of Cork and Kerry, the spirit of insurrection which had broken out 
proceeded from local causes and the condition of the lower orders of the 
people.” 

R Have the goodness to state to the committee, generally, in what way you 
thiuk the condition of the lower orders operated to produce this apprehen- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 91 

sion — on your general view of the state of the country, your genera! view of 
the case ?” 

“The population of the parts of the country where insurrections wore most 
prevalent, is extremely dense. The property is greatly subdivided, and the 
condition of the lower orders of the people is more miserable Ilian I can de- 
scribe it. The great increase of people, with other causes, which I shall ad- 
vert to more particularly, had raised the rents of lands in that part to a de- 
gree that was perfectly exorbitant. Land, in that country, which is totally 
destitute of manufactures, appears to me to have become (if 1 may use the 
expression) a necessary of life. The common mode of livelihood speculat- 
ed upon in that country, is the taking of land ; of course, in proportion as 
the population multiplied, the demand for land increased ; and that, combin- 
ed with the extravagant prices of all species of agricultural produce, had 
raised land to a price beyond any thing which we can call its intrinsic value. 
The subdivision of land was also produced by speculations of a different 
kind ; the consequence of this was, that land appeared to me to stand, gene- 
rally speaking, at a rent which it was impossible for the tenant at any time 
to pay, reserving the means of decent subsistence.” — [Minutes of Evidence, 
pages 5 & 6 ] 

I would beg to ask any dispassionate, rational man, whether outrage will 
not necessarily result from the wholesale expulsion from their tenements of a 
rustic population, already reduced to the wretched condition depicted by Mr. 
L. Foster? Can the pious exterminators — the saintly Orange-landlords— * 
expect to sow the wind without reaping the whirlwind ? 




CHAPTER XI. 

Confide in him who by experience knows, 

This is the woe surpassing other woes 
From his sad brow the wonted cheer is fled, 

Low on his breast declines his drooping head. 

Hooee’8 Ariosto 

That Lucinda’s marriage with Fitzroy should have 
been a union of happiness, no person could possibly 
expect, who did not think that habits of caprice and 
frivolity on the lady's part, and of depravity on that 
of the husband, contained the ingredients of felicity. 
To the whim that united the parties, succeeded indif- 
ference, chequered only with the variety of occasional 
recrimination. He discovered her acceptance of the 
Marquis of Ardbraccan’s offer of marriage, and re- 
proached her with incessant bitterness. She retorted, 
by upbraiding him with twenty infidelities, which he 
scarcely took the trouble to conceal. He would lis- 


92 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


ten with apparent unconcern and contempt to an elo- 
quent torrent of conjugal censure, and then quit the 
room with a yawn of listlessness. At length, the well- 
matched pair agreed to separate. 

“ Ah !” thought Lucinda, “ had I remained faithful 
to O’Sullivan, how different would now have been my 
fate! I am punished, justly punished, for my folly.” 

O’Sullivan’s success in India exceeded his most 
sanguine expectations. His relative had succeeded 
in procuring for him, immediately upon his arrival, an 
honorable and lucrative employment ; in addition to 
the emoluments of which, he received a gift of great 
value, in diamonds and money, from the gratitude of 
a native Indian Prince, whom he had an opportunity 
of essentially serving. In fact, his acquisition of 
wealth was so rapid, that he resolved on abridging the 
term of his exile from Ireland, as at the expiration of 
very little more than a year, he found himself the 
master of sufficient funds to render him a not wholly 
unsuitable match for Lucinda, so far as pecuniary 
matters were concerned. He iyas thinking of fixing 
the time for his return, but various unlooked for occur- 
rences detained him for another twelve-month. This 
delay increased his wealth ; but ere the expiration of 
the second year, a letter from Father O’Connor an- 
nounced, among other scraps of Irish intelligence, 
Miss Nugent’s marriage with Fitzrov. Utter incredu- 
lity was O’Sullivan’s first feeling; but to incredulity 
alarm soon succeeded, when he reflected that, since 
his departure, Lucinda had possessed three or four op- 
portunities of writing to him, of only one of which she 
had availed herself. Suspense was agonizing; it was 
worse than the worst certainty ; he persuaded himself, 
for a moment, that O’Connor was mistaken ; he re- 
called to his mind Lucinda’s vows of constant love, 
and cheated himself into a transient belief that her 
breach of faith was quite impossible. But then, again, 
the assertion deliberately made in the letter of his 
friend meChis eye: it was not a very likely thing that 
O’Connor could mistake on such a subject. To get 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


93 


rid, as fast as possible, therefore, of torturing doubt, 
he surrendered his employment, and sailed in the first 
home-bound British vessel. 

On arriving in Dublin he found his fears confirmed 
by the Kavanaghs, who were staying at their house 
in Stephen’s Green. The episode, too, of Lucinda’s 
readiness to marry Lord Ardbraccan, was faithfully 
narrated to our hero, and excited the natural emo- 
tions of indignant sorrovy. But he once had loved 
Lucinda ; and to a heart of the native tenderness of 
his, it was impossible to hate her who had early en- 
grossed his affections ; he might grieve, condemn, la- 
ment, and feel estrangement ; but hatred, — hatred 
was impossible. 

During his absence from Ireland he had been fre- 
quently exposed to the temptations that assail all 
men who mingle in the world ; vice, in a thousand 
fascinating forms, presented her blandishments ; and 
the society of dissolute youths, who tried to laugh 
him out of what was right, spread around him all the 
snares in which practised depravity invariably desires 
to entangle the innocent. 

To resist the temptations thus presented, there is 
but One guiding, governing motive, on whose guar- 
dian efficacy man can securely rely, — and that is Re- 
ligious Principle. O’Sullivan had been early im- 
pressed with the lesson, that in every case of doubt 
or difficulty he should put the question to himself, 
c< How would God choose that I should act in this 
case 1” and abide by the answer of his conscience. 
Taught by Divine Authority to pray against being- 
“ led into temptation,” it struck him that it would be 
exceedingly absurd and incongruous in one who pro- 
fessed to be a Christian, to expose himself voluntarily 
to temptations from which he daily begged to be pre- 
served. The hint he had received from Father O’Con- 
nor, at parting, on the subject of the ridicule cast by 
the dissolute on virtue and religion, had left a deep 
impression on his mind. Gifted by nature with a live- 
ly sense of the ridiculous, our hero could return shaft 


94 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


for shaft, and sarcasm for sarcasm ; and whenever (as 
was sometimes, though not often the case) he found 
his rejoinders overmatched by the practised satire of 
some witty profligate, he would still remain unshaken 
in his steady resolution, treasuring in his recollection 
O’Connor’s pithy and contemptuous apophthegm, that 
“ the man was undeserving of the name of man, who 
was capable of surrendering the solid convictions of 
his reason to the husky cachinnation of some unprin- 
cipled libertine’s half-wasted lungs. Let them laugh 
away!” he would say to himself; “1 don’t forget the 
good priest’s pregnant commentary on such melancho- 
ly laughter — I don’t forget, that by rising superior to 
its despicable influence, I shall, in the long run, have 
the laugh at my own side — even if I had not got it 
now, which 1 think I have, if the exquisitely delicious 
tranquillity of a peaceful conscience, possesses a supe- 
riority over the excitements, the disgusts, the fears, the 
ennui, the half-stifled remorse, and the feverish and 
intoxicating revelry of vice.” 

Such was the constant, the habitual tone of O’Sul- 
livan’s reflections on the prevalent crime and dissipa- 
tion, which persons of the world endeavor to palliate 
by calling it “ gaiety.” Perhaps his resolves received 
additional strength, from his anxious desire to render 
himself in every respect deserving of the paragon of 
loveliness and worth, that he fondly and firmly believ- 
ed Lucinda Nugent. 

“ Now, my dear friend,” said Kavanagh, who wish- 
ed, not from idle curiosity, but from the sympathy of 
friendship, to sound the recesses of O’Sullivan’s mind, 
“ tell me whether you still retain any of your former 
love for Mrs. Mordaunt — nay, tell me all without re- 
serve — with me your candor cannot be misplaced, 
and I hate to see the melancholy mood you have pre- 
sented ever since your return.” 

“Frankly then, my excellent old friend, I feel that, 
in spite of her conduct, the influence of former attach- 
ment does still retain a strong hold upon my heart — - 
O ! if you knew with what intense devotedness I loved 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


95 


her ! she was the love of my boyhood, of my early 
youth — It is foolish, I feel — extremely foolish ; I have 
always been able in ordinary cases to conquer my pas- 
sions by my reason ; but in this case,— alas, my friend, 

I find the task inexpressibly difficult.’’ 

“ That is not surprising,’’ replied Kavanagh ; “ in 
all other cases you were necessarily conscious of the 
first approach of passion, and religion enabled you to 
check it ere it had acquired strength. But here you 
are differently situated ; here you have fondly encour- 
aged an attachment which has now reached maturity, 
and consequently gives you more trouble than if it had 
been checked in its infancy. Weak and frail as hu- 
man nature is, I should fear, notwithstanding your 
sense of moral duty, the effect of a rencontre with 
Mrs. Mordaunt. I speak plainly, you see, and I warn 
you of your danger. She is now in Dublin, and one 
really would think she was ubiquitous, from the num- 
ber of persons who tell me they have met her partout. 
Your mind, my dear O’Sullivan, wants repose as well 
as your body; and as soon as you possibly can settle 
your business with Dowton, your attorney, I earnestly 
wish you would go to the country ; your own place is 
not yet out of lease, nor will it till next September 
twelve-month, and during the interval, will you oblige 
me by making Castle Kavanagh your home ? There 
is nothing upon earth like the sweet repose of rural 
life, for calming the exhausted spirits.’’ 

Conversations, frank and unreserved, such as these, 
tended much to restore O’Sullivan’s cheerfulness. Oh ! 
i 'it is those only that have felt the sting of anguish, who 
can tell the consolation which the wounded spirit re- 
ceives from possessing one faithful, sympathising friend, 
to whom the sufferer can pour forth his sorrows ! To 
O’Sullivan, Kavanagh was such a friend ; and the old 
man rejoiced as he perceived the beneficial efficacy of 
! his fatherly kindness. Kavanagh also endeavored to 
9 engage the active mind of O’Sullivan in pursuits of 
j literary interest, and often engaged in discussions, in 
: which he was aware that O’Sullivan would adopt an 


96 THE HtJSBANH-HtJNTEU. 

opposite opinion, for the purpose of withdrawing his 
attention from the painful and engrossing recollection 
of Lucinda’s caprice. 

One night the old gentleman was seated in his libra- 
ry, awating the return of O’Sullivan from Dowton’s, 
his attorney, to whose house he had gone, in order to 
arrange some important business. Kavanagh was im- 
patient for his friend’s appearance, as he wanted to 
show him sundry learned authorities he had collected, 
touching some warmly contested point in Irish history. 
O’Sullivan, in compliance with the early habits of 
Kavanagh, had arranged to return at ten o’clock ; but 
eleven, twelve, and one, successively struck, without 
his reappearing ; and Kavanagh, wearied by the de- 
lay, fell into a broken slumber, front which he was 
soon aroused by a loud knocking at the street-door. 
Internally execrating the modern alarming knocks that 
bid defiance to repose, he felt somewhat relieved on 
hearing the voice of O’Sullivan, who entered the libra- 
ry a minute after. 

“ Glad to see you, my dear boy — sit down — but 
how very unpunctual you are — Bless me !” (taking 
out his watch,) “ it is after one o’clock ! How long 
have I slept ! .What detained you, O’Sullivan ? Sit 
down, my boy, and stir the fire.” 

But O’Sullivan seemed as though he heard him not. 
His glance was wild and disturbed, and seemed to in- 
dicate a mind tormented with harrowing emotions. 
Kavanagh, surprised at his silence, arose and ap- 
proached him, and raising a candle to his face, 
was alarmed and astonished at its agonized expres- 
sion. 

At length O’Sullivan passionately exclaimed, “ Speak 
to me, for pity’s sake 1 let me only hear your voice ! 
the sound of any voice but her's is welcome ! Would 
that I had never heard, had never seen her !” 

“My dear young friend,” said Kavanagh, much af- 
fected, “ be composed, and tell me the cause of your 
affliction. Perhaps I may be able to comfort or relieve 
you.” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


97 


“ Impossible !” exclaimed O’Sullivan hastily ; “ you 
never felt what 1 feel. I dread your censure — I dread 
still more your contempt. If I dared to hope for pity, 

or to look for consolation, I might venture but 

no ! I must be silent. ” 

“ And is it to me you can speak thus ?” said Ka- 
vanagh in a tone of affectionate reproof ; “ my son ! 
my old friend’s only living child ! I am not stern, 
nor am I exempt from weakness.” 

O’Sullivan sighed deeply. “ You are old, my good 
friend, and cannot make allowance for the warm and 
impetuous feelings of youth. I will not — cannot 
speak.” 

Kavanagh took his hand with an air of benevo- 
lence, and said, “Age may have sobered me in many 
respects, but towards you it can never blunt my feel- 
ings. I am often considered capricious and censori- 
ous. I am sure I have suffered enough to make me 
so. But my manner alone is tainted with those fail- 
ings ; they have never reached my heart. I look with 
pitying sympathy upon the woes, and wants, and frail- 
ties of mankind ; although I have experienced but 
little sympathy in my own misfortunes. The dear 
objects whose presence once rendered life desirable,” 
continued the old man, while a tear, excited by the 
painful recollection, fell upon the hand that he held, 
“have long since been taken from me. I stand al- 
most alone in the world ; disappointed in nearly all I 
loved, I am hastening to the border of the tomb, to 
which I look forward as the only place of rest from 
the sorrows of my joyless existence.” 

O’Sullivan’s attention was fixed. He felt much 
surprise at the pain with which Kavanagh reverted to 
his early life, as he never had known a single expres- 
sion of complaint escape from the lips of his friend. 
He ventured to request the old man would tell the tale 
of his sorrows ; “ Perhaps,” said he, “ the recital may 
benefit me ; at least it may teach me a lesson of forti- 
tude in supporting my lot. And at all events, whatever 

VOL. 11. 9 


98 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


can withdraw my thoughts for a moment from myself, 
must be of use.” 




CHAPTER XII. 


And let th’ aspiring youth beware of love; 
Of the smooth glance beware ; for ’lis too late, 
When on his heart the torrent softness pours. 
Then wisdom prostrate lies. 

Thomson. 


“ It is hard,” proceeded Kavanagh, “ to drag from 
the grave the fault of my father ; but I fear I must do 
so to render my story intelligible. I was his only son, 
and heir to a moderate fortune. My fathei’s happi- 
ness seemed centred in my prospects. Alas ! had his 
views been less tainted with ambition, I might still 
have been happy. While yet a boy, my disposition 
was retiring and contemplative. Although I excelled 
in all the manly and social sports of youth, yet I often 
shunned the society of those with whom similarity of 
taste might have led me to form a friendship. Not 
that my youthful mind was tinged with any misan- 
thropic tendencies ; but I felt an early impatience of 
the ‘gay, unthinking crowd;’ and, unable to find 
a companion, who might realize my visions of ration- 
al friendship, I preferred the alternative of solitude. 
In such cases, we are marvellously apt to fall in love. 

Rose O’Connor, ” Mr. Kavanagh sighed as he 

continued, “ years have elapsed since I last pronounc- 
ed her name ! She was artless and innocent in mind, 
and lovely in person. My father affected slightly to 
disapprove our union, as Rose was a Catholic — ” 
(O’Sullivan seemed astonished.) “ You are naturally 
surprised,” resumed Kavanagh, “ as I am one too ; 
but my father was a Protestant. The old penal laws 
had reduced him to the puzzling alternative of relin- 
quishing his creed or his estate ; the latter he consid- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


99 


ered the more valuable, and accordingly became an 
edifying convert to the legal church. Indeed his fath- 
er, who was alive at the time, was partly the cause of 
his recanting ; for a Protestant relative, a third or fourth 
cousin, who, as nearest of Protestant kin, had filed a 
bill of discovery against the old gentleman, threatened 
in the course of the following term to enter into the 
possession of the estate. There was only one mode 
of averting the evil ; and that was to become a Protes- 
tant. It cost my grandsire a hard struggle, but tem- 
poral interest prevailed, and at length he resolved on 
the act. To church then he rode, one Sunday morn- 
ing, with the purpose of reading his recantation ; but 
just as he was about to dismount from his horse at the 
church door, the animal suddenly started at some ob- 
ject, and flung his rider with such force against an old 
tomb of our family, that his collar-bone was broken. 

“ f Ha P cried he, writhing with pain, * no luck 
attends my recantation — I won’t do it. But then the 
estate ! — 1 will make my son Dennis recant , and 
that will do as well ; for myself, the knock I got 
against the corner of my father’s tombstone is warn- 
ing enough to deter me # .’ 

“ And he did make his son recant, and accordingly 
our property was saved from the clutches of the cou- 
sin. The Orange gentry gladly hailed this accession 
to their ranks, and my father’s conversion effectual- 
ly cancelled the remembrance of certain ancient polit- 
ical misdoings that had often been imputed (by their 
party to our family. Notwithstanding the gratifying 
consciousness of having ascended some steps in the 
scale of social intercourse, I fancy some latent rem- 
nants of the ancient leaven were lingering near his 
heart ; for I remember in an illness occasioned by a 
dangerous fall from the wall of a cottage he was 
building, he showed some reluctance to face the other 
world with his Protestant credentials ; and the dislike 
to my union with Rose, which I verily believe he had 

i * This anecdote of recantation I give, exactly as I received it, from the 
Protestant descendant of a Catholic ancestor to whom it occurred. 


100 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


affected for the purpose of preserving the esteem of 
his Orange associates, was rapidly wearing away. 
You may be certain my father’s religious anxieties did 
not escape my observation. My tutor was a Protes- 
tant curate ; a man of the most amiable heart, the 
purest morality, of the mildest zeal : conscientious and 
exemplary, one might naturally have expected that 
his precepts, enforced by his virtues, would have firm- 
ly fixed me in the doctrines of the thirty-nine Articles, 
which the good man took incessant pains to instil into 
my mind. But it was not so. A knowledge of the 
causes of my father’s conversion, a certain mischiev- 
ous inherent nationality, a hatred of oppression that 
acted on a vivid and romantic fancy almost reckless 
of control, — all powerfully conspired to dislodge old 
Cranmer and the thirty-nine Articles. Such, I ver- 
ily believe, were the first external means that God 
employed to produce in me a most important end. 

“ You know the little arm of the sea that winds be- 
neath the wooded hills of Inchafell. Unless when 
the tide is out, it has quite the appearance of an in- 
land lake. The Atlantic is completely shut out by 
the intervening heights. 

Often have I left the hall of social mirth and revel- 
ry, to wander alone along its shores at the calm hour 
of moonlight, and to think of the faith whose inheri- 
tance I had lost, through a parent's misfortune. ‘ It 
shall not be lost to me,’ I mentally resolved ; c even 
now it is secretly mine ; and mine it shall openly be 
whenever I become my own master.’ These contem- 
plations formed one principal source of whatever hap- 
piness I then enjoyed ; and perhaps 1 prized my ‘ fai- 
ry bliss’ the more, because it was confined within the 
limits of my own breast. Oh ! those were indeed the 
days of enjoyment and peace ! The remembrance is 
sweet, though sorrowful ! How many buoyant hopes, 
which have since been blasted ! How many anxious 
fears, which served but to enhance the sweets of hope ! 

‘ Blest age J when life springs forward with a smile.’ 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


10 i 

But those days are long past, and the pleasing visions 
of the youthful mind have been long since dispelled 
by the better realities of life. Poor Rose ! of that 
bitter cup she had more than her share ! 

“ It was on one of my evening rambles by the woody 
shores of Inchafell, that we first met. She was car- 
rying a basket of fruit to an aunt of her’s, who was 
one of the little sisterhood by whom the convent of 
Conela was then occupied. A shower came on, and 
I offered to conduct her to the shelter of an ivied rock 
which overhung the shore. She accepted my offer 
with frank simplicity. We were quickly friends. Our- 
selves unconscious of guile, our hearts were habitual- 
ly open. I spoke of the former intimacy of our fam- 
ilies, and hoped it might revive. Rose sighed ; for 
she well knew what had escaped my recollection 
through a momentary inadvertence, that the friendly 
terms of which I spoke, had been interrupted by the 
bitterness of feeling attendant on my father’s conver- 
sion. The O’Connors, aware of his motives, consid- 
ered him a traitor to Erin and Religion ; and the Or- 
ange airs which he, poor man, immediately assumed, 
were not calculated to conciliate the friends he had 
left. Both Rose and I were silent on this painful sub* 
ject ; but the remembrance of it led to another, to 
which she ventured to allude. ‘ Is your tutor with 
you still ?’ she asked. ‘ He is,’ said I. Rose was for 
a moment silent ; I fully understood her feelings. We 
continued to converse, and Rose’s religious prepossess 
sions were strikingly apparent. To her, in hesitating 
accents, I then ventured to confide, what had till that 
moment been a secret to all save myself, that my own 
heart too, had been from childhood, devoted to the 
Catholic religion. What external causes had produc- 
ed this effect, I was not then philosopher sufficient to 
discover. Some impulse, soothing at once and irre- 
1 sistible, had impelled my dawning reason to the an- 
cient altars of the Christian worship. I was puzzling 
myself to account for this impulse. Rose, with great 
simplicity, cut short the thread of my perplexed in- 


102 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


quiries. ‘ It was the mercy of God/ said she. We 
continued to converse until the shower was over ; the 
moon had risen over the bay, and we traced the path 
that led along its shores to the convent, where I part- 
ed from her, as she was to spend the night with her 
aunt. 

“ I frequently met her after this : my happiest hours, 
I need scarcely tell you* were spent in her society ; 
I was one of her mother’s most welcome guests. 
Rose heard, and at length accepted my suit. And oh ! 
I never shall forget the angel smile that played upon 
her lip when first I informed her that my father’s con- 
sent had been obtained. Happy, happy moments ! 
But our bliss was delusive. On returning from one 
of my visits to Rose, I observed that my father’s man- 
ner betrayed unusual perplexity. To me he scarcely 
condescended to speak. At length I ascertained that 
the unexpected death of a distant relation had placed 
him in possession of a vast increase of wealth. To 
this, it soon appeared, he had determined to sacrifice 
my happiness. Rose was a girl too humble for the 
heir of five thousand a year. Her family, indeed, was 
good, but an ambitious connexion was now to be my 
object. And when I urged the folly, the cruelty, of 
blighting the hope so fondly cherished and now so 
nearly realized, my father suddenly reverted to his old 
objection on the score of religion ! Indignation kept 
me silent ; but I formed an internal resolution to quit 
for ever my father’s roof, devote myself to honest in- 
dustry, and rely on Rose’s constancy ; for well 1 knew 
the faithful girl would consider the want of wealth a 
trifling evil, when it enabled the husband of her choice 
to give her so strong a proof of his fidelity and love. 
But my father, as if intuitively aware of my intention, 
defeated it by closely confining me to my apartment.” 

“ Bless me !” cried O’Sullivan, “ I would have es- 
caped.” 

“ If you could , I suppose you mean,” resumed Ka- 
vanagh, smiling; “but escape I found utterly impos- 
sible, as my room was secured by a double door ; and 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


103 


the outer one was always locked by those who were 
allowed admission, before the inner door was opened. 
To defeat any effort I might make to regain my liber- 
ty, my father observed the precaution of stationing two 
trusty servants at the outer door, who could easily 
have intercepted my escape. Two years thus passed ; 
when one morning I found the passage empty and the 
doors unlocked. A fearful foreboding took possession 
of my mind — that Rose was no more. It was indeed 
too true. The gentle girl died of a broken heart. 
She was never made aware of my fate. Gold had 
bribed my gaolers, who were duly sworn to secrecy, 
and care was taken to spread the belief that I had 
entered into some foreign service. Rose probably 
concluded I was faithless and interested. And thus 
the cold and silent tomb for ever closed upon my only 
hope of happiness. ” 

Kavanagh paused for a few moments ; the exertion 
of speaking so long had fatigued him. He soon, how- 
ever, resumed. 

“ Perhaps my narrative tires you ; but this is the 
first time I ever have told it, and it shall be the last. 
I am old and feeble ; but before ‘ 1 go hence, and am 
no more seen/ I would willingly retrace the lights and 
shades, the joys and sorrows of my past existence, — 
pour them for once in the bosom of a friend, and then 
forget them, if possible, for ever. 

“ Rose’s death seemed to soften my fatherconsid- 
erably, and in his first relentings I am told he even 
wept. He endeavored to console me for the past ; 
but his efforts were vain. My fancy was perpetually 
haunted by the form of Rose, pale, faint, and dying, 
— mourning over me as a perjured traitor, for her gen- 
tle heart could not execrate even the wretch she must 
have thought me. My health became seriously affect- 
ed ; and as change of scene was recommended by the 
physicians whom the care of my father had collected 
about me, I departed for France, with a fixed resolution 
that I never would revisit Ireland. Years glided on, 
and my grief, at first, sullen and morose, gradually 


104 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


yielded to the charms of French society. My mind 
became calm and even cheerful. I was now capable 
of deriving satisfaction from the objects around me, 
though the avenues of my heart which once had been 
open to love, were closed forever. My father some- 
times wrote to me ; and latterly an air of tenderness 
pervaded his letters, and he gently reproached me 
with not writing more frequently. To write to him was 
always a painful task ; for the sad remembrance of his 
cruelty was then revived. At length, he importuned 
me to return to Ireland. At first, I refused, but he 
repeated his request in terms which rendered any fur- 
ther refusal impossible. His health, which had long 
been declining, was now in a state more precarious 
than ever. Although he might possibly linger for 
months, yet the stroke of death might fall at any time. 
He said he had much to tell me before we should part 
for ever, and conjured mfc by my filial obedience to 
come to his dying couch, and assure a repentant father 
of my full forgiveness for his past severities. To Ire- 
land, then, I returned. You may think with what 
feelings I caught the first distant view of the moun- 
tains at whose feet lay the lowly grave of Rose. I did 
not trust my fortitude with a visit to the place, as the 
meeting with my father awaited me. I rather tried to 
banish from my thoughts all the painful events con- 
nected with poor Rose’s memory. Our old family seat 
at Inchafell had been let by my father, who had gone 
to reside at Castle Kavanagh. This circumstance I 
regretted ; but it was out of my power to recall it. 

“ I was shocked at the change that age and illness 
had made in his appearance ; I freely forgave him all 
his injuries, and felt that I would sacrifice almost any 
thing to alleviate his sufferings. He speedily put my 
obedience to a serious trial. ‘ Edward,’ said he, ‘ you 
are the last male member of our family. I shall not 
die in peace until I see you married.’ I exclaimed 
that marriage was impossible, while the unfading re- 
membrance of her whom I once loved so dearly oc- 
cupied my breast. He persisted ; and his persever- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


105 


ance weakened my resistance. Indeed my own mind 
was so thoroughly unnerved by suffering — by the pain- 
ful emotions of years gone by, which my return to 
Ireland revived — by the pity which my dying parent’s 
illness excited — by the unearthly energy with which 
i he enforced his request, that at length I yielded, and 
became united to the lady whom he selected as my 
bride. Poor thing! she was gay and thoughtless. 
She is now no more ; and I trust that my conduct 
never led her to perceive that I had not a heart to be- 
stow. My father seemed to derive some pleasure 
from my marriage, but the excitement soon subsided. 
He sank into a kind of torpor which sometimes was 
disturbed by fits of mental agony. On these occa- 
sions I alone was permitted to approach him. Every 
one else was carefully excluded. One evening he 
appeared particularly restless and miserable ; some 
friends had repeatedly urged him to send for the Rec- 
tor of the parish, and partake of his spiritual aid ; but 
he always answered c No — no — I shall get over this.’ 

1 At this time I was openly a Catholic, and asked him 
I if he wished for the ministration of the parish priest ? 
His reply was still the same, — ‘ No — no — I shall get 
over this. 7 I verily believe that lurking Catholocism 
prevented his sending for the Protestant Rector, and 
that pride prevented his allowing the priest to ap- 
I proach him. On the evening to which I have allud- 
, ed, I heard him groan repeatedly, with inexpressible 
bitterness of mental or bodily anguish. I rose, and 
: was actually startled at the wild and horrible expres- 
sion of his haggard face ; he cast up his eyes ; his 
i lips moved frequently — I think in an effort to pray. 

' At length I heard the words, ‘ O, this is death V faint- 
ly uttered — he tried to make the sign of the cross, 
,, and expired. I shall not describe my sensations. 

“ Months passed, and a new source of interest 
presented itself. I became a parent. A son and 
daughter were the issue of my marriage. The birth 
of the girl proved fatal to her mother ; and the un- 
i divided duties of parentage devolving upon me, I 


106 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


devoted my entire attention to the care of the chil- 
dren. My affections were now engaged, and my 
heart was again expanding to happiness, when my 
peace received a bitter interruption from my son’s un- 
timely death. He went out boating with some friends 
who met to celebrate his sixteenth birth-day : the 
youthful mariners had ventured out too far to- 
wards the mouth of the harbor ; the weather became 
suddenly rough ; the boat, by unskilful management, 
upset, and before aid could reach the sufferers from a 
vessel that was anchored in the bay, my Edward had 
sunk — to rise no more to life. I was standing on 
the beach, and saw him carried on shore; I wept not 
then — I moved not — I gazed in silent horror. My 
poor, poor Edward 1” faltered the childless father, soft- 
ened for a moment to tears by the bitter recollection. 
But he soon recovered his composure. 

“ My cares were now completely centered in my 
daughter, who soon became a source of real consola- 
tion. But her ruin, too, I was destined to witness. 
A frivolous youth, who had served in the army, con- 
trived to engage her unwary affections by the fascina- 
tion of his manners. My attempts at dissuasion were 
vain ; her heart was fatally engaged, and reason was 
powerless. I witnessed her inauspicious nuptials, and 
the next year followed her to the grave. This last 
conclusion to my hopes imparted some degree of 
melancholy consolation, for I felt that her sorrows 
were over, and I wept but for the loss I had myself 
sustained. It is far more painful to behold the hope- 
less sufferings than the death of those we love. A 
parent only can understand the grief oi* one whose 
child is doomed to sorrow that admits not of relief. 

“ I have told you my tale : you see that my life has 
been a life of suffering. God has sustained me through 
it all ; and I feel solemnly convinced that the dispensa- 
tion, severe though it may seem, can be turned to my 
spiritual benefit. It has taught me, at all events, not 
to centre my happiness here” 

“ Your sufferings have indeed been bitter,” said 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


107 


O’Sullivan ; “ but it does not appear, from your nar- 
rative at least, that you have to reproach yourself with 
weakness. Oh ! this night ” 

O’Sullivan paused. 

“ What of this night V? demanded Kavanagh. 

“ I have seen Lucinda Mordaunt.” 

“ Well ?” pursued Kavanagh, anxiously, “ what of 
that ?” 

“ Heaven help me ! I feel that in spite of all, — aye, 
of all ! I love her still dearly — too dearly ! Oh ! 
I knew not the full power of the fatal fascination, un- 
til I found her, this evening, faint and lifeless in my 
arms. The light from the lamps imperfectly display- 
ed her beauteous features ; their healthful brilliancy 
was faded, but a much more bewitching attraction re- 
placed it. She was motionless — her eyes were closed, 
and her disordered hair was blown over my face. The 
scene so forcibly recalled our first sad parting, that 1 
scarcely had strength to support her one moment, — 
and the next , she was pressed to the heart she had 
tortured and betrayed. I blush for my weakness ! my 
criminal weakness. Till to-night I never knew the 
true state of my mind — I have hitherto deceived my- 
self with idle dreams.” 

“There is but one course to be taken,” said Kava- 
nagh ; “ and that is to fly from the presence, from the 
neighborhood of this dangerous enchantress. You 
must go to Castle Kavanagh.” 

“Ah!” said O’Sullivan, “I promised to visit her 
to-morrow.” 

“ Promised ? madness. You shall not, must not, 
cannot keep that promise. It was a promise to do 
wrong — to expose yourself to infinite peril ; and no 
promise to do wrong is binding.” 

“ I promised, most solemnly, and on my honor.” 

“ Ah, the artful, subtle creature ! and how did she 
manage to extort such a promise ? Well, well— if you 
will go, Henry, it is at least my duty to render your 
visit, which I trust will be brief, as little dangerous as 
possible, and therefore I shall accompany you. But 


108 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


under what circumstances did you happen to meet 
her to-night ?” 


CHAPTER XIII. 


Before the wind the vessel lightly glides, 

And the swift stream with swifter prow divides, 

But Rodamont in vain, on land or wave, 

From cruel care his anxious hours would save. 

Hoojle’s Ariosto. 

We shall answer Mr. Kavanagh’s last question, by 
narrating the events of the night. Returning in his 
chariot, from the house of Mr. Dowton, his attorney, 
in Fitzgibbon-street, O’Sullivan heard screams from a 
hackney carriage that had been upset at the western 
corner of Mountjoy-square. He hastened to afford 
assistance, and succeeded in extricating from her per- 
ilous predicament a lady who appeared to have faint- 
ed. The wheel of the overturned carriage was brok- 
en ; the hour was late ; no other aid appeared at hand : 
and O’Sullivan conveyed the fainting fair one to his 
chariot. But ere he ascended the step, her veil, which 
was dark and ample, was blown aside by an eddying 
gust of wind, and the features of Lucinda w r ere re- 
vealed to her astonished assistant. His first emotions, 
his remembrance of her ingratitude and perfidy, im- 
pelled him to await her return to sensation to load her 
with reproaches ; but this impulse soon vanished, as 
he gazed upon her helpless and exhausted form. In 
spite of himself, the strong current of his early attach- 
ment rushed back upon his heart, and he hated him- 
self for his cruelty. Admiration soon returned, and 
when Mrs. Mordaunt saw to whom she was indebted 
for assistance, she displayed much agitation. They 
remained for a very few moments in embarrassing si- 
lence. O’Sullivan asked at length, in tones that were 


TIIK IIUSBAND-HUNTER. 109 

tremulous with intense emotion, whither he should di- 
rect his coachman to drive? 

“ l lodge at Rathmines, ,, replied Lucinda, naming 
the terrace where her present residence was situated. 

“ Drive to terrace, Rathmines,” said O’Sullivan 

to the coachman. 

“ He is mine ! he is mine 1” triumphantly exclaimed 
Lucinda to herself, as she marked the agitated manner, 
and the ineffectual effort to assume composure. But 
the tremor of his voice betrayed him. 

“ Oh, you are kind — you are good — you are all 
that your years of early excellence promised — and to 
me ! to one so undeserving !” faltered Lucinda, in 
accents that thrilled his inmost soul. “ But do not, 
Mr. O’Sullivan, condemn me quite unheard — blame I 
have merited — but ah ! I am far more unfortunate 
than erring — I am a thousand times more sinned 
against than sinning ! Henry— I once could have dar- 
ed to say dear Henry — can I ever, ever be forgiven ?” 

O’Sullivan felt wholly unable to reply. He gasped 
for breath. “ Can it then be possible that 1 have 
wronged, that I have misunderstood this exquisite 
creature]” he asked himself; “O! the very thought 
is agony.” 

Lucinda’s tears fell fast, and auguring forgiveness 
from O’Sullivan’s agitated silence, she ventured gent- 
ly to press his hand, and then immediately withdrew 
her own, exclaiming, with delicious confusion, — “I 
forgot — I reverted for one moment to our former inti- 
macy — I should not indeed have forgotten.” 

“ Do not apologise, Mrs. Mordaunt,” said O’Sulli- 
van. 

“ Mrs. Mordaunt ! call me Lucinda, if you would 
not kill me with your coldness. But no — it is right 
that I should thus be punished, although it is far more 
for the fault of others than for my own.” 

I “ Dare I believe you V* asked O’Sullivan. 

“ Pray tell the coachman to drive very slowjy,” said 
Lucinda, faintly ; “ I am quite too weak to bear the 
VOL. II. 10 


110 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


rapid motion — I have recently been ill, and I have 
much, very much, to say to you.’’ 

O’Sullivan desired the coachman to moderate his 
pace. 

“ O, that is a relief,” said Mrs. Mordaunt, leaning 
back with an air of great exhaustion. “ I can now,” 
said she, “ breathe more freely ;” and she heaved a 
long drawn respiration. “ I am now,” she continu- 
ed, “ beginning to recover from the shock of so very 
unexpectedly meeting one whom I had been taught to 
believe was a tenant of the tomb. Henry, I had thought 
— nay, start not — I had thought you were dead.” 

“Good heaven !” ejaculated O’Sullivan, “dead !” 

“I am now, Henry, about to impart to you the sto- 
ry of the cruel, cruel wrongs that I have suffered ; you , 
I know, will feel for me ; your true heart will sympa- 
thise in all the pains I have endured ; but promise me 
first, dear Henry, that you will not repeat to any per- 
son breathing what I am now to communicate; by do- 
ing so, you could only increase the torture that I suf- 
fer. Promise me, Henry ; promise me solemnly.” 

“ I promise,” said O’Sullivan. 

“That is sufficient; your promise never yet has 
been broken. Now, then, I will open my whole soul 
to you. I have told you that I blame myself; and so 
I do, most bitterly, for suffering you to depart for 
India alone. I should have accompanied you. For 
neglecting to do so I was wholly inexcusable. Uni- 
ted as our hearts then were,” (here Lucinda sighed 
deeply, and seemed oppressed with a sudden remi- 
niscence,) “our only security for happiness had been 
an immediate union. I thought otherwise at the 
time, and have since been given ample reason to lament 
my folly. After you were gone, my brother became 
excessively attached to Fitzroy. Why so, heaven only 
knows ; for I think there is as little in Fitzroy to at- 
tract ad miration or to win esteem, as in any worthless 
trifler I have ever met. Nugent, you know, had been 
always a # kind brother ; but when he perceived my 
positive determination to avoid Fitzroy and to reject 


THE HUSBAVD-HUNTER. 


Ill 


his suit, he became totally different ; his manner 
changed ; he was no longer the affectionate brother 
he had formerly been ; he was peremptory, stern, and 
authoritative. If I said that he was savage upon some 
occasions, l should not exaggerate. Fitzroy continu- 
ed to press his hateful attentions ; and one day that 
my brother was particularly harsh, and actually threat- 
ened to expel me, without any provision, from his 
doors, unless I consented to the nuptials, I boldly de- 
clared that so long as you lived, it was utterly impos- 
sible ; that our faiths had been mutually pledged. 
Nugent was thunderstruck ; it was impossible to dis- 
cover whether his astonishment or his rage was the 
greater. The miserable agitation into which I was 
thrown by his cruel persecution, brought on a fever, 
and oh ! how cordially, how earnestly did I not wish, 
in the paroxysms of my misery, that the disease might 
prove fatal, and terminate my wretchedness ! But 
that was denied me. I recovered ; and one of the 
first pieces of intelligence with which they welcomed 
my returning health, was the news of your death. 
It never for one instant occurred to my mind to doubt 
the truth of the story, for they showed me a newspaper 
in which the event was minutely detailed ; you were 
said to have been killed in an engagement with the 
Looties. I do suppose that Fitzroy was the author of 
the vile fabrication, and procured its insertion in the 
newspapers. Be that as it may, I unhesitatingly believ- 
ed it ; I surrendered my mind to despair ; my spirit 
was paralyzed ; I cared little how soon they might lead 
forth their victim to the altar, or how they might deck 
her for the sacrifice. Oh ! it was a terrible, terrible 
period ! I dread to go on with my melancholy tale.” 

Mrs. Mordaunt paused, and sobbed convulsively. 
O’Sullivan’s heart was melted to the utmost tender- 
ness. All his former love returned, with its early force 
and freshness ; he gazed with intense affection, with 
unspeakable commiseration, on the innocent and love- 
ly being at his side, who had thus been lost to him and 
to herself, the victim of domestic persecution. A 


112 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


shade of doubt, however, crossed his mind, as he re- 
membered the episode of Lord Ardbraccan. 

“ Lord Ardbraccan ? yes/’ said Lucinda with a faint 
smile, as O’Sullivan pronounced the name ; “ I was go- 
ing to be married to the poor old Marquess too, and I 
candidly acknowledge I should then have rejoiced 
most sincerely had that marriage taken place. Even 
to you, dear Henry, I can say so ; because I am all 
openness and candor ; from you , indeed, there is noth- 
ing to be hidden. It was in the midst of my brother’s 
persecution about Fitzroy, that Lord Ardbraccan of- 
fered me his hand : as for love , I did not care for ei- 
ther ; but I especially detested Fitzroy, and would glad- 
ly have married the Marquess to get rid of my other 
hateful suitor. In truth I was passive, I was deaden- 
ed by the stunning succession of miseries ; happiness 
was quite out of the question, and all that remained 
for me was to select what appeared the lesser evil.” 

Lucinda spoke with such apparent candor and ease 
of her motives for wishing at that period to marry Lord 
Ardbraccan, that a more suspicious person than our 
hero would have found it, under all the circumstances, 
impossible to doubt her sincerity. 

“I had not then, ’’ she resumed, “ accepted Fitzroy ; 
but Lord Ardbraccan died suddenly, and his death left 
me no alternative. And now, dear Henry, that you 
have heard Lucinda’s simple tale, do you blame her ? 
or is she forgiven V 9 

“ Forgive you, Lucinda ?” he passionately exclaimed, 
“ what have you done, that required forgiveness ? In- 
nocent, persecuted angel 1 I pity you — pity you from 
the very bottom of my soul. But Nugent! that Nu- 
gent should have been your persecutor, appears, I con- 
fess, almost incredible ! how his character must have 
altered !” 

“ He was rendered excessibly irascible and peevish 
by numerous heavy losses on the turf,” said Lucinda. 
a His temper became soured, and he knew I was whol- 
ly in his power, being left by my parent’s premature 
death completely dependent on my brother for a for* 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


113 


tune. In truth I had not a shilling, independently of 
Nugent’s bounty ; and Fitzroy and Lord Ardbraccan 
both tempted his cupidity by offering to take me por- 
tionless. But oh ! dear Henry,” entreated Lucinda, 
energetically clasping her hands, “ you will never, nev- 
er reveal one word of all I have now told you, to mor- 
tal.” 

“ I have promised,” said O’Sullivan, expressively. 

“For Nugent, harsh though he has been, is still 
my brother, and his sister loves him — loves him, not- 
withstanding all his cruelty. And if one pang more 
severe than all I have hitherto endured, could be added 
to my load of misery, that pang would be the appre- 
hension of a hostile rencontre arising from an angry 
discussion between you and my brother on this subject. 
Avoid Nugent, oh avoid him, if you love me — Love 
me! how dared my lips give utterance to the expres- 
sion ! Alas, the emotions of my heart break forth, de- 
spite propriety and prudence ! But promise me, Hen- 
ry, that you will avoid Colonel Nugent,” 

“I certainly shall not unnecessarily seek his compa- 
ny,” returned O’Sullivan ; “ but I should not feel call- 
ed on to quit any society, merely because he formed 
part of it.” 

“ Fitzroy, I understand, has been seriously ill,” said 
Lucinda, anxious to ascertain how the contingent 
prospect of a possible reversionary interest in herself 
would affect O’Sullivan. 

But O’Sullivan received the information merely with 
a sigh. 

“ So very ill,” pursued Lucinda, “ that his physi- 
cians twice despaired of his life, I understand.” 

“ Indeed 1” exclaimed Henry, who seemed at this 
latter intelligence to be struck with the reversionary 
possibility ; “ what was his complaint ?” 

“ He has always been dreadfully dissipated,” sighed 
Lucinda. 

O’Sullivan was silent, and his thoughts involuntarily 
framed themselves somewhat after the following fash- 
ion : 


10 * 


114 


THE HUSBAND-HtJNTEK. 


“ What now, if Fitzroy should die ? May Heaven 
defend me from the sin of wishing it — but if he did 
— all obstacles would most undoubtedly be removed, 
in such a case, from my union with the love of my 
earliest boyhood. Oh, dream of bliss! Here she is, 
still unchanged in loveliness, in innocence, in affection 
— happiness may yet be mine — ha ! begone, foul 
Tempter ! happiness contingent on another’s death — 
O, it is perilous to trust myself near her ; I will tear 
myself from her — this unexpected meeting shall be 
our last, while Mordaunt lives.” 

As O’Sullivan formed this resolve, the carriage 
reached the door of Lucinda’s residence. He de- 
scended for the purpose of assisting her: his footman 
knocked ; the hall-door was opened by a woman-ser- 
vant, who held a lamp in her hand. Its beams fell 
full upon Lucinda’s lovely face ; she had now reco- 
vered her color, and her fair cheeks glowed with the 
suffusion ; her tears were dried, and she smiled upon 
O’Sullivan the smile of days of yore, the kind, warm- 
hearted, artless smile, that had a thousand times wel- 
comed him in former years to Martagon. 

“ Good night, my preserver,” she said, as she shook 
his hand with affectionate warmth. “ My heart feels 
lighter,” she added, in a lower tone, “ since I know 
you do not think unjustly of me. Will you visit me 
to-morrow at two ? or at any other hour that suits 
your convenience ?” 

“Yes,” replied O’Sullivan, hardly conscious of 
what he said, as he gazed with admiration on the ex- 
quisite form before him ; the intervening time, and its 
painful events, seemed all forgotten ; the illusion of 
the moment, the fresh, girlish beauty of his own Lu- 
cinda, placed him once more in the midst of the fairy 
happiness of Martagon. Lucinda perceived her ad- 
vantage. “ You will not fail me then, at two?” 

“ Certainly not.” 

“On your honor 1” (smiling enchantingly). 

“ Yes.” 

Another smile and pressure. He then got into his 


The husband-hunter. 


115 

chariot, was visited with certain compunctious emo- 
tions as it rolled away to Stephen’s Green ; where, as 
the reader is aware, he detailed his adventure to Ka- 
vanagh, merely suppressing Lucinda’s self-exculpatory 
statement, as he had promised her to observe a faith- 
ful silence on that subject. , 

Kavanagh retired to rest. O’Sullivan tried to sleep, 
but he found it impossible. The events of the night 
left his mind in a wild and painful whirl, that defied 
repose, and the dawn of morning found his wearied 
eye as yet unclosed. 




CHAPTER XIV. 


Think, turn back, before it he too late, 

Behold in me th* example of your fate; 

I am your seamark, and, though wrecked and lost, 

My ruins stand to warn you from the coast. 

Conquest of Granada. 


“ Now, my friend,” said Kavanagh, the following 
morning, “ have you made up your mind as to what 
you mean to do? Will you visit Mrs. Mordaunt, or 
will you not ] Is it right, or is it wrong ? that is the 
plain question. You say that your former affection 
for her returned last night. And 1 say — remember 
that she is the wife of another. Now, pray what will 
you do? There is but one right, and one wrong, so 
far as I can see through the question.” 

“ I do not like to break my promise,” said O’Sulli- 
van. 

“Your promise? phoo ! a cobweb, because given 
under a delusion — Suppose you heard the typhus fever, 
or the plague, had broken out in her house, would you 
then keep your promise? 1 warrant me you would 
not. And for you , if I know aught of human nature,, 
a worse plague may be risked — a moral plague.” 

“ You are right,” said O’Sullivan ; “ I should be 
highly imprudent, I believe, to encounter real danger 


116 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


for the sake of a punctilio. I shall write, however, to 
inform Lucinda, that as I see no good that could pos- 
sibly arise from my visiting her under present circum- 
stances, I have made up my mind not to do so.” 

“Certainly,” said Kavannah, “politeness demands 
that you should write.” 

The note was accordingly written and despatched. 

“ Come, now,” said Kavanagh, “ to Dowton’s ; you 
have business there to-day, and so have I.” 

To the house of the attorney they proceeded. 
Mr. Dowton was out when they arrived, but his clerks 
expected that he would return immediately. The 
gentlemen were shown into an inner study, or “ whis- 
pering office,” as the attorney facetiously termed it. 
Among a heap of dusty briefs and papers on a desk, 
lay two, of which one was indorsed, “ O’Brallaghan 
and Foster, Jewellers, versus Fitzroy Mordaunt, Esq. 
beneath this indorsement was written the word “ Com- 
promised. On the back of the other document ap- 
peared a voluminous title, superbly engrossed, in 
which Mrs. Fitzroy Mordaunt’s name occurred two 
or three times. What it was, O’Sullivan did not in- 
vestigate, notwithstanding that his curiosity was 
strongly interested ; for he felt that it would have 
been base to examine. Dowton presently came bust- 
ling in, and accosted his clients with a world of apol- 
ogies, for having been absent when they came. 

“ Hah !” said he, chuckling, and rubbing his hands, 
as he saw O’Sullivan’s eye wander for a moment to 
the mountain of briefs, and alight, as he thought, on 
‘O’Brallaghan and Foster, Jewellers, versus Fitzroy 
Mordaunt, Esq.,’ “that was a comical job in the 
honey-moon of that harum-scarum genius, Fitzroy 
Mordaunt. His wife, Miss Nugent that was (I 
believe you knew her, gentlemen), was going to be 
married to the poor, old, doating Marquess of Ard- 
braccan, w ho ordered O’Brallaghan and Foster to send 
her a splendid suit of ornaments, valued at £1500. 
The Marquess’s order was merely a verbal one, and 
given to a clerk, who sent Miss Nugent the jewellery 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


117 


on the very same day. In a week the Marquess sud- 
denly dies, and lo ! in a fortnight dies the clerk as 
suddenly. No living witness could O’Brallaghan and 
Foster produce, nor witness of any kind except their 
books, which were all kept with great regularity, and 
in which the entry was found in the hand-writing of 
the defunct clerk, but set down to the account of the 
defunct Marquess. What was to be done ? All my 
Lord Ardbraccan’s executors were ready to make oath 
that they never had seen nor heard of the trinkets ; 
they challenged the jewellers to show a written order 
from the Marquess ; no such thing was in existence. 
Hopeless of payment in that quarter, the poor jewel- 
lers’ only chance remained in an appeal to” — (here Mr. 
Dowton elongated, as far as it was possible, his dumpy 
rubicund visage, and raised his eyebrows to the meridi- 
an of marvel) “ to — what do you think 1 to Miss Nu^ 
gent’s honesty — ha, ha ! She would not pay, — oh, no ! 
she knew nothing whatever of the matter — it was 
Lord x\rdbraccan’s business, and not her’s, to settle his 
accounts with his jewellers. O’Brallaghan and Co. 
were in despair; the dead clerk had himself — as they 
believed — been the bearer of the jewels to Miss Nu- 
gent, so that even the secondary evidence of a messen- 
ger was not to be had. This last defect of evidence 
we were not at that time aware of, although we after- 
wards learned it. Meanwhile, Miss Nugent was mar- 
ried to Mordaunt, decked out in the very suit of orna- 
ments in question, and most heavenly she did look, no 
doubt ! Next day, notice of action was served on the 
gay bridegroom by O’Brallaghan and Co., to recover 
the amount of the glittering gems that adorned his 
fair bride ; and Fitzroy, who has, at all times, a plaguy 
indigestion of bills and accounts, but especially of 
those for which he personally gets no value, popped 
the case into my hands. I called on the plaintiffs — 
had a long palaver with Fleece’em, their solicitor, and 
persuaded them that though they might put us lo some 
trouble and expense, they could never recover a frac- 


118 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


tion. So they jumped at a compromise — and we gave 
them, for fifteen hundred pounds’ worth of trumpery, 
— ha ! ha ! how much do you suppose, Mr. Kava- 
nagh ? how much do you guess, Mr. O’Sullivan? 
Eighty-two pounds, ten and six-pence ! Faith, that 
same Lucinda is the devil at a squeeze , when she can 
— Wheugh !” (and Dowton grinned, puckered up his 
eyes, and shook his head, as he threw himself back in 
his official chair,) “ she ’s a damned long shot, faith ! 
Ough ! I know her capers.” 

“ But I really think,” observed Kavanagh, “ that it 
was highly reprehensible in you, Mr. Dowton, to 
assist her in what, to use the gentlest terms, I must 
designate as bearing a very strong resemblance, at 
least, to a swindling transaction.” 

“ Oh, as to that, I always leave the case of con- 
science to be settled by my clients — I have only to 
deal with the law of the case ; and if I can bring them 
off scot free, pray is it not my duty ? But pray, let 
us talk about your business, Mr. Kavanagh — I have 
had two excellent offers for the houses in Limerick, 
one as a tenant, and the other as a purchaser; but I 
would not close without consulting you,” Sl c., 6lc. 

Dowton continued to expatiate on the subject of 
Kavanagh’s Limerick houses, and their value in the 
market ; but O’Sullivan heard not a syllable he said. 
His thoughts were painfully engrossed by the story of 
the bijouterie. One instant he felt indignant at Lu- 
cinda’s want of principle, and rejoiced that he had re- 
solved on not visiting her ; and the next, he felt equal- 
ly indignant at Dowton’s misrepresentation of her part 
in the transaction ; it was thoroughly impossible that 
Lucinda, the artless and the innocent — that his own 
Lucinda — alas ! his own no longer 1 could be guilty 
of dishonesty or meanness — Oh ! how he wished that 
he could hear five words from her lips in vindication 
of her conduct ! it was absolute torture to believe that 
she was guilty. She would place the transaction in a 
different light, in its true light, he had not a doubt, 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


119 


But Dowton’s foul-mouthed calumnies against her — 
uttered, too, with such an easy, plausible flow of per- 
fect information — the fellow deserved to be put in the 
pillory for representing the unsullied, the immaculate 
Lucinda as an unprincipled swindler — a she-blackleg 
— that is, again, if his story were false ; — ay, if 

These ruminations were disturbed by the opening 
of an inner door, from which sailed forth the celestial 
apparition of — Lucinda herself. 

“ Good heavens, Madam !” exclaimed Dowton, start- 
ing up, “ I did not know you were in the house — I 
beg ten thousand pardons.” 

“ 1 came,” she replied, “ while you were out, and 
your servant showed me into the usual back-parlor, 
where I have been sitting with exemplary patience this 
hour. “ Ah, my excellent friend, Mr. Kavanagh,” 
she continued, approaching the old gentleman, and 
warmly pressing his hand, “ I am truly delighted to see 
you. I trust my darling Isabella and her mother are 
well, and in spirits ?” 

Kavanagh replied to this tender accolade with po- 
liteness ; and O’Sullivan fancied that he saw, notwith- 
standing Lucinda’s expression of delight at meeting the 
old man, that she would have heen far better pleased 
at his absence. She next accosted him , and bestowed 
on him such a fond smile, and such an affectionate 
pressure, that he bitterly reproached himself for har- 
| boring the shadow of a doubt of the stainless purity 
and worth of a being so true, so lovely,' so confiding. 

Dowton resumed his conversation with Kavanagh, 
i in which he was presently occupied with earnestness. 

: Mrs. Mordaunt took the opportunity to say, in a low 
1 voice, to O’Sullivan, “ I shall see you at two?” 

“ No,” he found courage to reply ; but he said it 
tremulously. 

“ No !” she repeated ; “ to what must I ascribe this 
sudden change ?” 

“ The truth is plainly this, Mrs. Mordaunt ; l feel 
that I still love you too well, and as you are the wife 


120 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


of another, duty imperatively tells me to shun your so- 
ciety. Now we fully understand each other.” 

The plain, honest bluntness of this answer, complete- 
ly disconcerted Lucinda. She saw, that, although the 
accidental meeting of the preceding night had mo- 
mentarily thrown him off his guard, yet she would not 
find it quite so easy as she had anticipated, to entan- 
gle him further in a labyrinth of subtle sensibilities and 
delicious dangers. She was silent, and a tear fell from 
her eye ; their faces were turned towards the window. 

“ You are right,” she said, at length ; “ you are al- 
ways judicious, always excellent. Oh,” (sighing bit- 
terly), “ what a cruel, cruel lot is mine, to have lost 
the benefit of such a friend and guide ! In fact, I par- 
ticularly wished to speak to you to-day on some mat- 
ters of business, and to avail myself of your friendly 
guidance and advice ; for my affairs — ” (and as she 
pronounced the word affairs , a mischievous doubt 
about the jewellery story obtruded itself on O’Sulli- 
van’s mind ;) “ for my affairs a/e sadly embarrassed ; 
the estate on which Fitzroy made my separate mainte- 
nance payable, is over-ridden by half a dozen mort- 
gages, and turns out to be almost worth nothing. 
Fortune, notwithstanding my former expectations, I 
had none, or next to none — Colonel Nugent has quite 
cast me off, since his mind has become so much en- 
grossed by the turf ; and — pardon me, my early friend, 
for thus obtruding my miseries upon your notice ; I 
feel, indeed, that I am taking an unwarrantable liber- 
ty in doing so ” 

“ Oh, Lucinda !” 

“ In short, then, I see before my eyes the prospect 
of a painful and difficult struggle for subsistence. 
With respect to these circumstances, I own I did wish 
to consult you ; but since your prudence has discovered 
that danger might attend our intercourse, I am suffi- 
ciently reproved,” she proudly added, “ for my unin- 
tentional presumption.” 

O’Sullivan, in spite of himself, experienced that 


the husband-hunter. 


121 


choaking oppression which is the usual prelude to 
tears ; but summoning his manhood to his aid, he re- 
covered himself. Lucinda saw that she had warmly 
engaged his compassion in her favor. 

“ As you will not visit me,” she said with a deep 
sigh, “ perhaps you will have no objection to accom- 
pany me to Dowton’s back parlor, and to talk over 
these unpleasant affairs with me there. ” 

“ We can speak of them here” he replied ; “ Dow- 
ton and Kavanagh are too intent on their own con- 
versation to regard us.” 

“^Unmanageable man!” thought Lucinda; “how 
provokingly handsome he looks ! What, then,” she 
asked, resuming their confidential tone, “ would you 
recommend me to do V 9 

The question was a very comprehensive, and a very 
puzzling one. O’Sullivan paused for a few minutes, 
wrapped in thought, and then asked, — 

“ Have you not got fifteen hundred pounds worth 
of diamonds, or bijouterie of some description V 9 

“ I — have,” said Lucinda, after two moments’ hesi- 
tation. 

“Then I would advise you to sell them, and the 
interest of the money will be a very great assistance 
to you.” 

“ The man has no heart, after all !” thought Lu- 
cinda. 

“ What income are you able to extract from the 
mortgaged lands, assigned to you by Mr. Mordaunt, 
for your separate maintenance ?” 

“ Oh, a mere trifle — £.50 ayear.” 

“ Well, say £70 per annum for the interest of the 
money your bijouterie will bring; and £70 and £50 
are £120. A hundred and twenty pounds a year 
will enable you, with economy , to -enjoy real comfort 
in some quiet retirement. And, harassed and perse- 
cuted as you have been, Mrs. Mordaunt, I feel certain 
that retirement and repose are absolutely necessary to 
recover your exhausted strength and spirits.” 

“ Henry, do you pity me V 9 

VOL. II- 11 


122 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


‘‘From the bottom of my heart.” 

“ You may assist me in the sale of the jewellery, 
then. I should wish to dispose of it by private sale, 
as much as possible — it would sell, I think, to more 
advantage. Will anything bring you to the neighbor- 
hood of Knockanea, this month 2 Lady Jacintha 
might become a purchaser. — Or stay — Baron Leschen 
might buy them for a wedding present to her ladyship, 
to whom he is soon to be united.” 

O’Sullivan, with all his affectionate feelings for Lu- 
cinda, did not precisely relish the idea of hawking 
about her bijouterie for sale : he seemed to hesitate. 

“ You know you need not say that they are mine,” 
added she. 

“ A-propos,” interjected O’Sullivan, summoning up 
courage sufficient to seek the solution of a doubt) 
“were O’Brallaghan and Foster ever paid for them?” 

“Unquestionably,” answered Lucinda, undismayed 
by the sudden inquiry — “ of course Lord Ardbraccan 
paid for them ; he was one of the most scrupulously 
honorable men in existence. The jewellers commenc- 
ed an action against me, or rather against Mr. Mor- 
daunt, as we were quite unable to discover a receipt 
among Lord Ardbraccan’s papers, in order to make 
us pay them over again, and we were compelled to 
give them eighty-two pounds, most unfairly ; for, from 
Lord Ardbraccan’s well-known habits of immediate 
payment for the very largest purchases, I look on it as 
being utterly impossible that he should, in this solitary 
instance, have deviated from his invariable rule. But 
all this is nothing to the purpose — you have not told 
me whether you will assist me in disposing of them. 
Will you, Henry ?” 

“ You may certainly command my best assistance, 
if you find yourself otherwise unable to sell them ad- 
vantageously ; I should, however, strongly wish that 
you would first try what could be done without em- 
ploying me.” 

“ Before Mrs. Mordaunt could reply, Kavanagh's 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


123 


conference with Dowton ended, and the attorney sud- 
denly turning about to O’Sullivan, said, — 

“ I am ready for you , Sir, now, if you please.” 
Lucinda seemed quite overcome by her feelings, 
pulled down her veil, and hurried out of the apartment. 

“ I suppose,” said Dowton, “ she was giving you a 
history of her sorrows. Ay, poor thing, let her be 
what she will, I cannot but pity her, with the pros- 
pect of poverty before her. She has somehow mortal- 
ly offended Colonel Nugent; and her husband bit her 
devilishly in that business of the separate maintenance. 
Well she may weep, poor thing, and lament her for- 
mer happy days at Martagon. Do you know that it 
used to be whispered, Sir, that you had a hankering 

after her at that time ” 

“ Sir ?” exclaimed O’Sullivan, angrily. 

“ Pardon, pardon — 1 ’m a blunt old fellow, and 
meant not the least offence. ’Tis almost a pity, if 
that should have ever been the case, that you did not 
take her off to India with you when you went there.” 

“ I beseech you, Dowton,” said O’Sullivan, mani- 
festly unable to control his agitation, “ I beseech you, 
let us have no more of this.’* 

“ Not another word in the world, Sir,” said Dowton, 
with a serious manner, “ except one. I speak to you 
Sir, as your father’s old friend, and you must not be 
angry with me. I see by your look at this moment, 
you could send me to Old Nick, but I can’t he\p that 
— it must come out. I am sharp enough to guess that 
you take some interest in Mrs. Mordaunt, and, there- 
fore, I tell you as a friend, to keep clear of her ; she ’s 
as cunning as a pet fox, and would bubble you as soon 
as she ’d bubble O’Brallaghan the jeweller, and with 
just as little compunction. Have nothing to say t© 
her, young gentleman — that ’s my advice — for V m sor- 
ry to say she ’s wholly unworthy of your sympathy. I 
have now said my say ; and I hope, young gentleman, 
that you ’ll take advantage of it.” 

“ Sir,” exclaimed O’Sullivan, indignantly ; “ you 


124 


THE HUSBANB-HUNTEH. 


are perfectly incapable of appreciating or compre- 
hending the character of Mrs. Fitzroy Mordaunt.” 

“ There, now,” said Dovvton, turning an appealing 
eye to Kavanagh ; “ did I not rightly say that the la- 
dy was as cunning as a fox ? Only see how she has 
persuaded our friend of her sanctity !” 

“ Sir,” resumed O’Sullivan, with great indigna- 
tion — 

“Sir,” interrupted old Kavanagh, ludicrously mim- 
icking his indignant manner; “ I positively insist that 
not a single lance shall be shivered between you and 
Dowton on the subject of Mrs. Mordaunt’s all-unut- 
terable merits and perfections. Nay, not one other 
word,” he added, in a peremptory playful tone, as he 
saw O’Sullivan about to speak ; “ the plain truth is, 
that Dowton has opportunities of knowing all about 
her, such as you have not. For many of her faults, 
poor thing, I can readily excuse her, on the very valid 
plea that she was left without a fitting guide in child- 
hood ; both her parents died when she and her bro- 
ther were extremely young; and Nugent, who was 
scarcely two years older than his wild and imagina- 
tive sister, was, although an excellent fellow in his 
own way, quite unfit to be a guide for Lucinda. 
Now to business — to business.” 

“ Ay, to business,” said Dowton, arranging all his 
papers on the desk before him ; “ enough has been 
said upon this painful subject for Mr. O’Sullivan to 
profit by — if he thinks proper.” 

And dismissing, so far as he could, (which, indeed, 
implies no very great powers of abstraction,) all 
thoughts of Lucinda, her errors and maligners, from 
his mind, O’Sullivan became immediately engrossed, 
to all appearance, in a monqeau of bills, bonds, leases, 
and title deeds. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


125 


CHAPTER XV. 

Lightly on the sportive wing, 

At pleasure’s call they fly, 

Hark ! they play, they dance, they sing, 

Id merry, merry revelry. 

Song of the Masquerade. 

A grand masquerade at the Rotundo was announc- 
ed, under the auspices of their Excellencies the Vice- 
roy and Vicequeen, who benevolently interested them- 
selves in the welfare of some charitable institution, in 
aid of whose funds the receipts on this occasion were 
to be devoted. Many personages of the highest rank 
had promised their attendance ; and public expecta- 
tion was raised in proportion to the interest the ap- 
proaching entertainment appeared to excite among 
the noble and the wealthy. 

The bustling Mrs. Delacour came to insist on the 
Kavanaghs’ presence at the masquerade. Mr. Kava^ 
nagh at first refused ; but Mrs. Delacour succeeded 
in softening his obduracy. 

“ O’Sullivan,” said Kavanagh, “ will you come ?” 

“ No, Sir; I should be sadly out of place among 
the gay and happy.” 

“ Nonsense ! you must not presume to erect your- 
self into a tragedy-king ; come you must, if it be only 
to attend on Isabella.” 

This mode of solicting O’Sullivan’s company wa& 
irresistible, as his politeness was concerned in his com- 
pliance, and he yielded his consent with the best grace 
imaginable. 

The coup d’ceil was superb. The large circular 
apartment, eighty feet in diameter, and forty in height* 
was tastefully and richly decorated by our old friend 
Peve^elli ; and the other apartments were screened off 
into bowers, and pagodas, and temples, and caverns, 
affording every possible facility for the performance of 

n* 


126 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


appropriate and diversified scenes, by the different 
groupes. 

A spirited Turkey-cock flew up the staircase with 
expanded wings, and half danced, half fluttered his 
part in a pas-de-trois, in which the other performers 
were Mother Goose, six feet high, and a Donkey on 
his hinder legs. 

A gentleman appeared in the character — or, we 
should rather say, in the shape — of a colossal bottle of 
Warren’s Jet Blacking, belabelled on the front with 
some of the self-laudatory stanzas of that celebrated 
artist’s inexhaustible muse. 

A Turkish marquee was occupied by the veiled pro- 
phet of Khorassan and his harem. A Zelica of exqui- 
site beauty, whose face was almost the only one un- 
veiled, seemed the “ favorite Sultana” of the night. 

O’Sullivan looked around in search of Kavanagh ; 
and after some minutes recognised the old humorist 
in the guise of an ancient Irish Chieftain, with his 
band of galloglasses dressed in flowing saffron-colored 
robes, and his harper playing some wild, furious, ra- 
pid battle-march on the wire-strung harp. 

The veiled prophet of Khorassan, who apparently 
loved mischief, proposed that the half-tanned deer-skin 
brogues of the Irish Chieftain’s galloglasses, should be 
polished with the contents of the ponderous bottle of 
Warren’s Jet Blacking. 

“ Who will dare to draw my cork ?” cried the hex- 
ameter bottle, suddenly suspending its slow and so- 
lemn progress, as these words reached its auricular 
faculties. 

“1 will!” thundered the veiled prophet, starting 
up with an air of defiance from his oriental cushions. 

“ Thou durst not !” said the blacking-bottle, stoutly. 

“ My invariable practice,” said the prophet, “has 
been, to strike off the neck of every bottle that pre- 
sented the least difficulty in drawing the cork.” And 
he menacingly waved his bright and polished scimitar. 

“ In that case,” said the dauntless bottle, with an 
air of bold defiance, “ I can only resort to my natural 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


127 


means of defence, by squirting a towent of my sable 
fluid on the snowy drapery of your veiled Holiness.” 

“ Ho !” exclaimed the imperious and indignant 
prophet, “ then it seems we are defied within the very 
precincts of our harem! Slaves! soldiers! scourge 
yonder wretched jar of inky liquid from the purlieus 
of our tent, or it may be that our just indignation 
may enforce the execution of our threat to sever its 
neck from its body.” And again the veiled prophet 
waved his glittering weapon. But the ladies of his 
harem, one and all, interposed to prevent the consum- 
mation of his vengeance ; starting from their glowing 
carpets they compelled him to resume his seat, plead- 
ing that although the refractory and insolent vessel 
well merited the chastisement, yet its infliction would 
deluge the floor with a torrent of the sable blacking, 
which could not but prove detrimental to the delicate 
satin shoes and flowing silken robes of the seraglio. 

What the prophet muttered in reply was unheard, 
being drowned by the overpowering strains of the Irish 
Chieftain’s harper, who incontinently struck up his 
loudest planxty, chorussed by the wild, shouting voices 
of a dozen galloglasses, whose purpose was probably 
to cover the retreat of the blacking-bottle, in which 
they perfectly succeeded. 

Mrs. Kavanagh and Isabella, who wore dominos, 
now joined the Irish Chieftain, and committed Mrs. 
Delacour to the exclusive care of O’Sullivan. Dulcet 
strains proceeded from a distant bovver, in which Hen- 
ry, on approaching, found Faustus and a troop of 
witches, exhibiting their wild, fantastic, volatile, yet 
not ungraceful movements, in a mystic hell-dance. 
At certain appropriate stages of this extraordinary 
branle , the performers checked their whirling evolu- 
tions, twirled their broomsticks with ease and light- 
ness, then clattered them together in the air, and 
wound up the movement by dexterously pirouetting 
with their cloven hoofs outstretched. 

O'Sullivan was highly amused with the well-trained 


128 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


precision and grace that distinguished the movements 
of the witches, and would have gladly lingered as long 
as they danced, only that Mrs. Delacour hurried him 
away to the darkest recesses of a neighboring cavern, 
and ensconced him in a corner which was screened 
from every ray of light, and in which he neither could 
see nor be seen. “ Why are we here ?•” he asked. 

“ Because,” replied Mrs. Delacour, “ from this spot 
you will shortly, if I do not mistake, behold a scene of 
rare interest enacted, which you could not possibly see 
to so much advantage if you stood forth surrounded 
by a blaze of light. Now that your eyes are becom- 
ing a little accustomed to the darkness of this cave, 
do you observe a star that twinkles faintly in the fir- 
mament— a single star, that seems to struggle dimly 
through a mass of murky clouds ?” 

“I do,” replied O’Sullivan, looking upwards. The 
illusion to which Mrs. Delacour thus directed his at- 
tention, was managed admirably. 

“ Hush,” said she, impressively placing her hand 
upon his lips; “ this is the cavern of silence. We 
must not any more infringe upon its mystic stillness.” 
She enforced this requisition with a meaning pressure 
of O’Sullivan’s arm, and he felt himself, he knew not 
why, constrained to acquiescence. 

They were silent for at least ten minutes, while the 
music, the laughter, and the hum from the other apart- 
ments reached the ear of O’Sullivan with a tantalizing 
influence. Steps were at length heard approaching ; 
and Faustus, the hero of the wizard dance, advanced 
alone into the cave. He paused for an instant, and 
then stamped on the floor. “ Prospero ! Prospe- 
ro !” 

Prospero answered to his call, as if from the bowels 
of the earth. 

“ Keep watch, lithe goblin,” said Faustus, “ and 
mark me — if hostile steps approach our cave, troll 
forth the chorus of some merry roundelay to give us 
notice,” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


129 


“ Unquestionably, mighty Sir,” replied the goblin, 
who forthwith took his station at the mouth of the 
cavern, as if to keep watch. 

“ Love, where art thou ? Precious love ?” demand- 
ed Faustus, turning towards an inner recess of the 
cavern. No answer responded to his amorous query. 
He paused a few moments, and advancing farther in- 
ward, repeated his impassioned call, in tones as softly 
sweet, as meltingly seductive, as ever were inspired by 
Cupid. Soon creeping steps were faintly heard, as 
though stealthily proceeding from an inner gal- 
lery. Faustus clasped his hands with a gesture 
of impatience. “ It is she !” he exclaimed in cc- 
stacy. 

“Love! dearest love!” he continued, apostrophis- 
ing the yet invisible object of his adoration, “ I await 
thee here with punctual fidelity. Oh ! queen of my 
affections, I adore thee ” 

“ With my * Ri tol loll !’ and my 1 tol lol de ri !’ ” 
sang out Prospero, the goblin watchman at the cav- 
ern’s outer mouth. 

“ Damn Prospero !” muttered Faustus ; “ he ’ll 
spoil my heroics.” 

Prospero trilled forth another stave or two, and was 
then silent. 

“ Ay7’ said Faustus, “ since he holds his tongue, 
all ’s right again. Oh, angelic Bardinette, delay not ! 
open that invidious door, and suffer me to tell you 
that I love you with each pulse of. my fond and faith- 
ful heart ! that I adore you with my ” 

“ Rum-tum-tiddy-iddy, heigh-jee-woah !” again 
chaunted forth the admonitory Prospero. 

“ Curse that fellow !” muttered Faustus. “What 
is he at now ]” 

The alarm having passed, the guardian sprite was 
once more silent. 

“ What, Pardinette ! still silent? can music melt 
thy obduracy ?” and Faustus struck a chord or two 
on a guitar, that lay in the cave. 

“ Why did you let that fair young witch escape 


130 THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 

you, who sang so sweetly in the dance ?” at length 
demanded Bardinette, speaking from the other side of 
the sable and impenetrable barrier. At the sound of 
her voice O’Sullivan shuddered, and the blood rushed 
back to his heart ; he feared the tones were too fami- 
liar to him. 

“ I left her,” answered Faustus, with an affectation 
of carelessness, “ because a red mouse, in the middle 
of her song, sprang out of her mouth.” 

“ That was all right,” said Bardinette ; u be it enough 
that the mouse was not grey ; 

' Do not disturb your hour of happiness, 

With close consideration of such trifles.’ ” 

“ Come, fair Bardinette,” cried Faustus, “ open ! 
open ! would I could say £ open Sesame !’ and defy 
the barriers of opposing doors ! I burn with impa- 
tience to embrace thee, dear one! fair one ! fond 
one !” 

“ A witch is never won, unwooed, unserenaded,” 
replied Bardinette. 

Faustus added not another word, but snatched up 
the guitar, and immediately accompanied its chords 
with a characteristic “ ditty,” exquisitely chaunting 
the following 

WIZARD S SERENADE. 

“Hushed is the wind, the stars are clouded, 

Save one twinkling point on high ; 

In sombre mists the moon is shrouded, 

Haste thee, love ! to estacy. 

* “Here, at the lonely, midnight hour, 

Impervious to intrusive eyes ; 

Where odorous flow’rets round our bow’r, 

Their fragrance wave in balmy sighs, 

“ Thy faithful Faustus waits — Oh, haste ; 

And list Love’s rich, delicious lore ; 

O, linger not, sweet Witch ! nor waste 
The moments that return no more.” 

“ Rum-ti-tum, tiddy, heigh-jee-woa !” chorussed 
Prospero. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


131 


<( Hark !” cried Bardinette, “ we are interrupted.” 

A moment’s attention from the listening ear of 
Faustus, allayed this apprehension ; and he resumed 
his ditty. 

{< An amorous witch, on yesternight, 

Came riding on a broomstick swift, 

Down yonder glen, by the pale moonlight, 

And proffer’d me, love’s dearest gift. 

{{ { Come, come to my cave !’ was her wanton lay, 

‘ And share the rich feast I ’ve made to-day. 

* I ’ve a table spread with dainties rare, 

1 Which none but myself and my love must share. 

“ c I ’ve broth that is made of a murderer’s fat, 

‘ Distilled from his flesh on the gallows tree|; 
c Of the snake’s poison-fang, and the wing of bat,— 

‘ This dainty dish I ’ve cooked for thee. 

u 1 Then come to my cave !’ was her w r anton lay, 

“ And share the rich feast I ’ve made to-day. 

1 Of music sweet thou shalt have choice, 

{ There ’s ever a concert rare in my cave-; 
c There ’s the adder’s hiss, and the frog’s croaking voice, 

* And the midnight moan from the churchyard grave. 

Then come, my loved one, come with me, 

‘ To my den, beneath the blighted oak, 

‘ On the dun scorched heath, near the trysting tree, 

‘ Where the carrion crow and the raven croak. 

‘ Hark ! they call me ! Croak 1 croak ! 

{ From the boughs of the huge old blasted oak.’ 

K She then brushed my nose with her bushy tail, 

And poked my cheek with her curled horn ; 

But her wanton wiles were of no avail, 

For I repulsed her love with scorn. 

I spurn’d her table with dainties set, 

For my heart was pledged to my own Bardinette. 


K Then haste thee, love ! soon morn will rise 
And dawning streak the eastern sky, 

The melancholy night-breeze sighs, 

To think how fast the swift hours fly !’* 

«Tol, lol ; tol de-rol^e-rol de-ri !’ chorussed Pros- 
pero. 

Bardinette, apparently mollified by the strains of 
her wizzard lover, opened the jealous door, through 
which streamed a line of brilliant light ; which, how- 


182 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


ever, as it fell on a different side of the grotto from 
the deep recess where O’Sullivan and Mrs. Delacour 
were seated, did not reveal their presence to the in- 
quisitorial eye of Faustus. 

“ Do you really soon sail for France ?” inquired the 
fair witch, taking her seat with great sang froid at the 
side of the wizard. 

“ In a month,” answered Faustus, “all my plans 
will be ripe for execution ; and then, love, 

H{ Our bark shall bound o’er the dark, deep sea. 

Merrily ! merrily ! merrily !’ 

Don’t you love the excitement of feeling yourself 
borne along on the ocean’s foamy crest, with nought 
around, aloft, but the wide blue waters and the azure 
sky ?” 

“I hate the excitement of sea-sickness, and of pale- 
faced stewardesses, and the fetid effluvia of the cabin of 
a steam-packet. You know the sonnet to sea-sick- 
ness : 


“ 1 There is a punishment for all my sins, 

Which, in their wisdom, if the gods award, 

I ’d rather roast for a»es, with hot pins 

Stuck thrpugh my flesh, — each pin in length a yard ; 

It is, to have my disembodied soul ^ 

Condemn’d to sail upon a shoreless sea, 

And to be sea-sick all eternity.’ ” 

“ Ah !” cried Faustus, “ there is a salve for these 
transitory desagremens.” 

“ What is it ?” asked the fair witch. 

“ Love,” answered Faustus, with passionate empha- 
sis, and catching the witch in his embrace. 

“ Yes,” sighed Bardinette, “ if love be faithful and 
enduring; but of that I sometimes entertain a doubt.” 

“ Enchantress !” exclaimed Faustus, “ you must not, 
shall not doubt ! And yet,” he added pensively, after 
a moment’s thoughtful pause, “ since you mention 
doubts, I must say that there is a certain point, which, 
In order to make my own mind perfectly easy, I would 
gladly have cleared up.” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


133 


“ Name it,” said the witch. 

“ Henry O'Sullivan,” answered Faustus. 

O’Sullivan started, but Mrs. Delacour forciby re- 
tained possession of his arm, and prevented him from 
stirring. 

“I have heard from a certain quarter,” added Faus- 
tus, “ that you early had a penchant for that Indian ad- 
venturer, and that since his re-appearance from his two 
years’ exile in the gorgeous East, your early preposses- 
sions have returned in full force." 

“ Your suspicions are supremely absurd,” replied 
Lucinda, (for, as our readers have doubtless anticipat- 
ed, the witch was no other than Fitzroy’s accomplish- 
ed wife ;) “ O’Sullivan is almost a simpleton, and had 
once, I confess, the foolish presumption to offer me his 
hand, but what of that 1 I care not for him ! rather 
let us think of the present — of the future ” 

“ Of the future,” replied Sir Henry Bradford, ten- 
derly embracing Mrs. Mordaunt, “which opens such 
rich stores of felicity to our enjoyment. Oh ! Lucin- 
da ! you have never been in Paris. You know not 
then the acme of human felicity. I shall speedily re- 
cover the losses I have sustained in England, with the 
aid of our Parisian faro-bank, which will be an inex- 
haustible mine of wealth.” 

Prospero here interrupted the speakers by chaunting 
forth a noisy chorus, which was quickly followed by 
the voices, footsteps, and laughter of a numerous par- 
ty, who approached the cavern, or grotto, from ano- 
ther apartment. Lucinda vanished through her door, 
closed and fastened it, and all was again involved in 
total darkness. Faustus took up his guitar, and, at- 
tended by Prospero, as goblin page, stalked through 
the rooms, chaunting wild and characteristic rounde- 
lays. 

“ Will you await his return, and Lucinda's, to hear 
more ?” asked Mrs. Delacour. 

“ Heaven forbid ! my heart is sick — sick to thevery 
core. 1 will go home — this scene of noisy mirth makes 
me giddy.” 

VOL. II. 


12 


134 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ Was Dowton right asked Mrs. Delacour signifi- 
cantly. 

“ Alas ! I fear he was.” 

“ You fear ? are you not certain ?” 

They were now moving rapidly down one of the 
staircases leading to the great round room, and O’Sul- 
livan was assuring Mrs. Delacour that had he not been 
rooted to the spot, as if by magic, he would never have 
remained the invisible auditor of Lucinda’s disgraceful 
arrangements. 

“ But,” said he, “ 1 shall warn her from plunging 
into final ruin — ruin both of soul and body — I shall ex- 
postulate ” 

“ Do nothing,” said Mrs. Delacour, “without con- 
sulting Mr. Kavanagh.” 

“ How did you become aware of the amorous tete- 
k-tete that she proposed to enact with Sir Henry Brad- 
ford ?” 

“ I learned it from Lady Bradford, who has long 
been aware of her husband’s infidelities. She discov- 
ered — 1 know not how — the assignation at the mas- 
querade, and the dresses of Lucinda and Sir Henry, 
and unreservedly spoke of the affair to me ; and, on 
my mentioning what I had heard to Mr. Kavanagh, he 
immediately pointed out the mode in which the infor- 
mation could be turned to your benefit.” 

The next morning, at six o’clock, O’Sullivan was 
rolling along in one of the southern mail coaches, on 
his way to Castle Kavanagh. 

“There is but one miraculous part of the transac- 
tion,” said Kavanagh ; “ and that is, that this univer- 
sal gossip, Mrs. Delacour, should have abstained from 
conveying a hint to Lucinda or Sir Henry Bradford 
to keep out of the grotto.” 

“ Oh, that would have spoiled her own peeping, 
said Mrs. Kavanagh, “ which sufficiently accounts for 
her silence. But she will certainly now contrive to 
let Lucinda know that O’Sullivan witnessed all her 
manoeuvres.” 

Mrs. Kavanagh was mistaken in this anticipation, 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


135 


for Mrs. Delacour had not any opportunity of convey- 
ing to Lucinda the intelligence in question. Lucinda 
quitted Dublin the following day incog., in a carriage 
which was rapidly driven through the western outlets 
of the city with the side blinds up, and which stopped 
at a lonely house on the Kilcullen road, where a gen- 
tleman hastily got in, and the vehicle immediately re- 
sumed its former rapid pace. 

The gentleman was Sir Henry Bradford. 


CHAPTER XVI. 


Wreck of a warrior pass’d away, 

Thou form without a name ! 

Malcolm. 


So, my brethren, if Principle guide not our actions, soul and body will alike 
become a miserable wreck. 


Lynch’s Sermons. 


O’Suluivan’s spirits returned, with a freshness and 
rapidity that astonished himself. 

“ Make what one will of it,” said he, “ the whole 
affair is resolvable into this plain fact — that I have had 
a most blessed escape of a very worthless woman. 
Broken heart 1 pshaw ! why may not a broken heart 
(even supposing that my own had suffered fracture) 
be restored as well as a broken leg, or a broken arm ? 
The only difference is, that the heart requires moral 
surgery, and the leg or the arm physical. For my 
life-long I have trained myself to conquer passion, and 
now, after a long and arduous struggle, shall passion- 
ate regret conquer me ? By my father’s hand it 
shaVt ! I am sorry for Lucinda — sorry that she 
seems in such a promising way to go to the devil — 
glad, exceedingly glad, that I am not her companion 
on the journey. Whatever the diversified amuse- 
ments on the road may be, it must be ackowledged 


136 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


that the termination is not a peculiarly inviting one. 
Ah, no — common prudence should make every ration- 
al being avoid that . How many miserable, self-con- 
ceited asses there are, whose sole occupation in life 
appears to be an indefatigable, ceaseless effort, to lay 
up a plentiful store of everlasting misery !” 

As the coach speeded merrily on, O’Sullivan expe- 
rienced that interest which is always felt by a traveler 
on revisiting the scenes of his boyhood after a sojourn 
in a distant land, even although his residence abroad 
may not have been of very long continuance. He 
saw the monumental pyramid erected by Lord Naas 
in the churchyard to the left of the road, and recog- 
nised, as an early friend, the dark sepulchral mass of 
stone. He swept beneath the embowering elms of 
the Earl of Mayo’s park — passed through Naas ; be- 
held, in quick succession, many a town and spire fa- 
miliar to his eye ; saw beneath him, in the valley to 
the right, the decayed old house of Belan, the desert- 
ed abode of the Earls of Aldborough ; while on a gen- 
tle eminence at his left, was a small and airy temple, 
once in the centre of the Belan pleasure grounds, but 
now in the midst of a coarse pasture, undefended from 
the inroads of incursive cattle. Onward, onward, 
swept the coach, the steeds gently tickled by the deli- 
cate lash of Jemmy King, the most merciful w'hip on 
the southern road. The peaked mountain of Mount 
Leinster majestically rose to the east ; Colonel Bruen’s 
deer-park, with its lines of old trees protected by their 
several palings from the antlered tribe, w>as passed 
in its turn; the town of Carlow, with its huge and 
ancient castle, and its new cathedral, opened on the 
view ; horses were changed — Jemmy King, who had 
taken five minutes refreshment, remounted his throne, 
and the words, “ All right !” from the scarlet-coated 
guardian of the rear, were the signal for a fresh start 
with a set of prancing greys. 

Off we go ! and ere long, the narrow confines of 
Carlow are passed, and the green, swelling pastures, 
and extensive stubbles of Kilkenny, spread before us. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER, 137 

Mount Leinster still stretches at our left ; the rough 
granite of its steep sides emitting an occasional spar- 
kle in the cold wintry sunbeam. Our neighbor on 
the coachtop is a smart, intelligent, agreeable compan- 
ion, on a journey— he is, peradventure, a Tighe, or a 
St. George, from the neighboring county of Wicklow ; 
or, it may be, a Vigors or a Kavanagh from Carlow. 
Be that, however, as it may, we are charmed with his 
manifest enthusiasm for the pleasures of the chase, 
and the unrestrained frankness wherewith he gives us 
all the advantage of his intimate acquaintance with 
the sporting localities of the country : he is not, ei- 
ther, a mere man of fox-earths and hunters; his mind 
has been enlarged by travel, and his natural quickness 
of perception improved by constant mixture with the 
world. As the coach rolls along, he points to our 
view the vast towers of the Ormonds in the southern 
horizon, flanking the courts and angles of the ancient 
hereditary castle of Ireland’s Chief Butler, that seems 
the giant guardian of the city of Kilkenny, which 
stretches at the base of the eminence on which the 
castle stands, with its celebrated qualities of 

“ Fire without smoke, 

Air without fog, 

Water without mud, 

And streets paved with marble.” - 

That castle-^-with its ancient halls — its dreamy galle- 
ries — its store of portraits, of which many are almost 
as old as the walls that they adorn — its historic and 
romantic recollections — the unrivalled view command- 
ed by its windows ! How provoked we feel when our 
dream of chivalry is suddenly broken by the voice of 
a smart waiter from the Rose Inn, who informs us that 
dinner is on the table, and that as the coach only 
waits twenty minutes, we have not a moment to lose, 
if we mean to reach Clonmell to-night l The doom, 
however, is imperative ; and we incontinently find 
ourselves seated at the table d'hote of the Rose Inn, 
ingurgitating mulligatawny, or masticating Leinster 
mutton, with a haste that bodes evil to our powers of 
12 * 


138 


THE HUSBANB-HUNTEU. 


digestion ; but we have spent a dozen truant minutes 
loitering beneath the old castle, and a few premonitory 
flourishes on the guard’s French-horn instruct us to 
make up for our lost time. 

Dinner is speedily concluded, and the early winter’s 
night having fallen already, we are inside passengers 
for the rest of our road to Clonmel, where we sleep 
soundly until five the following morning; at wdiich 
period our repose is invaded by a slipshod waiter, who 
leaves a candle on our toilette-table, and informs us 
that the Cork mail-coach will start in an hour. We 
summon courage to dispel the pleasing drowsiness of 
slumber ; spring from our bed with a sudden effort of 
desperate resolution, and having despatched, with all 
convenient speed, the duties of our toilette, descend 
to the lower apartments, where a plentiful and excel- 
lent breakfast awaits us. The horn sounds and the 
coach appears ; behold us Once more upon the roof ; 
the cold moon shines over the quiet empty streets, the 
glassy river, the leafless woods of Marlfield, and the an- 
cient limes and elms of Knocklofty. In passing the 
bridge at the northern end of Knocklofty, the wary 
coachman slackens his space, for the wheels are destined 
to encounter an angle of ninety-six degrees in the road- 
way over the central arch, which has been rendered par- 
ticularly dangerous by the hard frost of the preceding 
night. This “ kittle-step” surmounted, we resume our 
rapid pace ; the paling stars are gradually lost in the 
golden dawn, and the moon, who has hitherto done us 
much good service, modestly retires behind the distant 
hills, as if she felt disinclined to obtrude herself further 
on our attention, when her pesence is no longer neces- 
sary. The sharp morning air is keenly exhilarating ; 
the outlines of the mountains of Clogheen are clearly 
defined against the horizon. The coachman selects 
the left-hand road, wdiich affords us a view of the lord- 
ly Gothic towers of Shanbally Castle, embosomed in 
their dark expanse of aged oak woods, and fronting the 
full beams of the morning sun. Clogheen is passed ; 
we ascend a well kept road which gradually brings 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


139 


us to the summit of the Kilvvorth wastes, from which 
we command the stupendous Gaulty range of moun- 
tains to our right, with their steep, peaked, and jagged 
outlines. A faint and distant peep may be obtained 
of the castle of Mitchelstown, a truly magnificent 
monument of the splendor and opulence of the fami- 
ly of Kingstown. 

Onward still we are whirled, through Kihvorth’s 
straggling village — have a momentary glimpse of 
Moore-Park’s glen, and stream, and solitary tower ; 
half a dozen miles bring us to Fermoy with its bar- 
racks like a ducal palace, and its streets decaying and 
deserted. We admire the broad and curving Black- 
water ; learn with much satisfaction that Cork is only 
seventeen (Irish) miles before us, and, after a quarter 
of an hour’s delay, are once more en route for “ the 
beautiful city.” We sweep by the hill of Corrin, en- 
ter Rathcormac, skirt Lisnegar and its trellissed range 
of cottages, pass by Kilshannick’s stately mansion, ad- 
miring, as we pass, the aged oak that fronts the en- 
trance gate. Five miles farther, and lo ! Watergrass 
Hill, of yore the residence of Father Prout of eccen- 
tric notoriety ; it was here that the worthy ecclesias- 
tic composed Greek stanzas and shod horses. The 
scene is now sterile, unpromising, and bleak, and it 
does not improve for four miles more ; when the road, 
as if to reward the patience with which we have tra- 
versed its recent sterility, conducts us, by gracefully 
descending undulations, to the exquisite scenes of 
Glanmire. Here nature has lavishly scattered all the 
charms that wood, and hill, and water, can contribute 
to the picturesque; and through this lengthened ave- 
nue of loveliness, did our traveler, Henry O’Sullivan, 
reach the venerable city of Cork about half-past one 
o’clock, p. m. on the second day of his journey from 
Dublin. Between thirty and forty miles were still be- 
fore him, to the “ wild, wild west and retaining his 
ancient predilection for equestrian traveling, he hired 
a stout hackney at the stables of either M‘Dowell or 
JLloyd (our history is not so precise as we could wish 


140 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


in this important particular) ; and after a day’s rest in 
Cork, proceeded at a reasonably early hour on the fol- 
lowing morning to amble his brisk nag on the Killea- 
dy road. 

He advanced at such a leisurely pace, that it was 
tolerably late in the day when he knocked at the hos- 
pitable door of Dwyer’s Gift. O’Connor’s delight 
was great, at seeing him. 

“ Keadh rnhile failthe rothe !” exclaimed the old 
priest in a hospitable ecstacy ; “ ten thousand wel- 
comes home from India. And fifty thousand thanks 
for beating up my quarters before you went to your 
valued and valuable friends at Castle Kavanagh. 
But you would not have found them at home.” 

“ No man knows better than I do that I should not 
have found them at Castle Kavanagh, for I only quit- 
ted them the day before yesterday in Dublin, where I 
have been spending a month with them in Stephen’s 
Green.” 

“ A month ! and you never wrote to me, to say 
you had returned to Ireland! forra! forra fuith*!” 

“ My dear old friend, that was because I judged 
you would prefer the surprise of the sudden, unex- 
pected appearance of my delightful physiognomy — 
and now that I am snugly seated by your hospitable 
hearth, let us have a short chapter of reminiscences 
before dinner.” — But the entrance of dinner at this 
very moment directed the ideas of our hero, at least 
for a while, into another channel. 

“ How fares it with your parishioners ?” said he, 
when the cloth was removed : “ I deeply regretted to 
hear of poor Howlaghan’s fate.” 

“ Ah, that was a very sad business indeed. But 
Lord Ballyvallin’s subsequent councils, influenced by 
the amiable Walton, have been those of justice and 
mercy ; so that matters have assumed an aspect far 
brighter than they wore some time ago.” 

u Do you ever go to Knockanea ?” 

a Sometimes ; not very often, however. I shall 

* Forra ! forra fuith ! Shame L shame on you l 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


141 


probably go there to-morrow, and you may as well 
accompany me; for I assure you Lady Bally vallin 
never sees me that she does not particularly ask if I 
have recently heard of your movements.” 

u Her ladyship does me much honor ; I am wholly 
at a loss to account for the interest she expresses in 
me.” 

u I dare say we may attribute it partly to the con- 
stant encomiums Mrs. Mersey, — I beg her highness’s 
pardon, — the Princess Gruffenhausen, pronounced on 
your merits.” 

“ On my merits !” 

“ Yes — but do not be too much flattered ; good 
looks and naivete would have secured the good graces 
of that clever and somewhat romantic lady at any 
time.” 

In a day or two O’Connor and O’Sullivan went to 
Knockanea ; and the latter was favored with an invi- 
tation from Lord Bally vallin to pass some days there. 
He accepted his lordship’s invitation before he disco- 
vered that one of the guests at Knockanea was Mr. 
Fitzroy Mordaunt. He received this intelligence with 
rather an unpleasant feeling of surprise. 

“ But after all,” he mentally demanded, “ why 
should I avoid this man ? He has probably done me 
good service in placing Lucinda beyond my reach, al- 
though it is possible, — just possible, that had I become 
her husband she might have turned out a different 
character. Be that, however, as it may, nothing is 
more certain than that, ns matters now stand, it is 
somewhat better for me that the lady should be any 
body else’s wife than mine.” 

O’Sullivan learned, that among the estates that had 
recently devolved to Fitzroy at the death of some an- 
tiquated uncle, there was one which was situated £on- 
liguously to Knockanea, and which Lord Bally vallin 
was desirous to purchase. It was to conclude the ar- 
rangements of the sale that Fitzroy now visited his 
lordship. 

Lord Bally vallin had so far recovered from his late 


142 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


indisposition, as to be able to hobble about the shrub- 
beries with his stick, and to drive to the farther en- 
trance gate in his wheel-chair. 

For two days after O’Sullivan’s arrival, Fitzroy was 
invisible; on the third he appeared in languid elon- 
gation on a sofa in the breakfast parlor. His attitude 
Was one of elegant exhaustion ; and O’Sullivan gazed 
at the manifest inroads that disease had made upon 
his constitution, with a feeling of compassionate inte- 
rest. 

“How stout you look, O’Sullivan,” said he; “In- 
dia seems to have thriven with you famously in every 
respect.” 

“ He has not been quite such a dissipated dog as 
you” said Stapylton, a brother officer of Mordaunt’s, 
who had formerly known O’Sullivan. 

“ Stapylton,” said Fitzroy, “ did you ever procure 
that specimen of ancient Flemish tapestry, woven by 
the Klosz family, which you promised Lady Jacintha 
months ago ?” 

“ Found it impossible hitherto,” said Stapylton, 
“ but I live in hopes.” 

“ I saw it in mynheer Heidenmeister’s house, at 
Hoogevecht,” said Fitzroy ; “ It was woven on a loom 
two hundred years old, that had descended for eight 
generations from father to son.” 

“ That was an heir-loom ,” said O’Sullivan. 

“ A pun, by Jove!” cried Mordaunt; “ 1 laid that 
trap for you.” 

“ And you meant to have caught yourself in it,” 
said O’Sullivan. 

Stapylton laughed, for he knew that Fitzroy was a 
constant dealer in the impromptu fait h loisir , and fre- 
quently laid pun-traps and quibble-springes, of which 
he took advantage with most innocent imaginable air 
of unconsciousness. Fitzroy was angry because Sta- 
pylton laughed, and because O’Sullivan saw that he 
had spread a deliberate snare for a vapid witticism. 
He changed the conversation from tapestries and Fle- 
mish looms, and began to inquire what Indian adven- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


148 

tures O’Sullivan had met, seasoning his questions with 
a strain of prurient libertinism that shocked and dis- 
gusted O’Sullivan, who gave unequivocal expression 
to his sentiments. 

“ O, I beg pardon — I forgot,’’ said Fitzroy, with an 
air of sneering nonchalance ; “ you, I believe, are what 
we call a pattern man — is not that the phrase?” 

“ Not a pattern, indeed,” replied O’Sullivan, calm- 
ly ; “ but 1 try to be a copy of such models as appear 
to be worthy of imitation. But you , Mr. Mordaunt 
— are you not a pattern man on the opposite side of 
the question ? that is, a pattern of the charming, en- 
couraging, consoling, invigorating effects of your fa- 
vorite pursuits, on the body , as well as the mind?” 

“Pooh!” said Mordaunt carelessly, “there’s no- 
thing new in that retort ; it was made before now by 
the Abbe Morellet to Grignac. As Sheridan observed 
of some one, you are indebted to your imagination for 
your facts, and to your memory for your wit.” 

“And you ,” retorted O’Sullivan, alluding to Fitz- 
roy’s previous tone of libertinism, “ are indebted to 
the brothel for your facts, and to its inmates for your 
wit. I must confess that I think my imagination and 
memory are rather more reputable sources of either 
wit or facts, than those on which you habitually draw.” 

“ That ’s all a matter of taste,” answered Mordaunt 
with an air of indifference ; “ such incomparably pious 
moralists as you are, would compel us to pass through 
the world on our knees, with our eyes turned up, and 
our hands clasped together in one long, canting, in- 
terminable prayer.” 

“And moralists of your class,” returned O’Sullivan, 
“ would compel their disciples to limp through the 
world upon crutches, their self-entailed debility re- 
quiring artificial assistance. Now, on every account 1 
should prefer the kneeling plan, although it excites 
your derision ; for it trains us to ask and to strive for 
a favorable lot in the world to come, but not to anti- 
cipate the natural period of our exit from this ; where- 
as your disinterested, self-devoting system too often 


144 


THE HUSBAND -HUNTER. 


hurries its votaries prematurely out of life, — not in 
the odor of sanctity, but in the odor of a pharmaco- 
poeia, which affords a pretty foretaste of the agreeable 
eternity they take such incessant pains to secure for 
themselves — Faugh ! the very idea is revolting I’’ 

“ Well,” said Fitzroy, “ you will at least admit 
there is no wisdom in anticipating evil.” 

“ There is wisdom, I should think, in trying to 
avert it.” 

“ Excellent cant for a parson or a monk,” said Fitz- 
roy ; “ but I do not pretend to the honors of either 
the pulpit or the cloister ; I am a citizen of the world.” 

“ A citizen of the world !” repeated O’Sullivan, ex- 
changing his tone of sarcastic acidity for one of mild 
expostulation ; for in very truth his disgust and con- 
tempt were overcome by his unfeigned commiseration 
for the wretched being who endeavored to sustain the 
cause of immorality ; “a citizen of the world ! a citi- 
zen of the empire of vice. Great God ! and is this 
the use to which you perversely turn the intellect, the 
will, your Creator has given you ? Your days are fleet- 
ing ; you have probably shortened your span by intem- 
perance. And yet you boast that your proficiency in 
vice is a citizenship of the world ? Mordaunt, the im- 
mortal Christian soul is a citizen not merely of the world, 
but of the universe — a citizen of eternity. How is it 
possible that vice* can have so bewitched your reason, 
as to blind you to the claims of that immortal state 
upon which you must one day enter, while your whole 
attention is devoted to the fleeting concerns of this 
world, of which we shall speedily say, c it is past !’ ” 

The tones of O’Sullivan's voice thrilled with rich, 
expressive fervor, and his keen, black, penetrating eye, 
seemed as though it pierced through the dark veil of 
time into that eternal world on which his hopes were 
fixed. Fitzroy was silent ; a sneer curled his lip ; the 
vapid and abortive sneer of callous, profligate indiffer- 
ence. 

“ Can nothing rouse this miserable man?” thought 
O’Sullivan ; “ he is, indeed, extremely hardened.” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


145 


At length the oracle vouchsafed to speak. “It 
were bad philosophy,” said he, “ to suffer the facili- 
ties of happiness, presented by kind fortune, to escape 
me unavailed of.” 

“ Happiness !” repeated O’Sullivan, “ you certainly 
cannot be serious. You don't pretend to tell me that 
you have found happiness, or that your course of life 
could possibly lead to it. There you lie, pinched by 
disease, of which the pains are not alleviated by a sin- 
gle consolatory reflection. Is that happiness?” 

“ And there you stand,” quoth Fitzroy, “ a pillar 
of virtue, as you wish to persuade us ; and since you 
are so very personal, permit me to inquire if any of 
the shots you ever aimed at happiness have brought 
down the game for yourself? There’s a certain Lu- 
cinda, for instance, the possession of whom was once 
to have conferred on you exquisite felicity. — How has 
that affair ended ?” ( 

“ Why, really,” answered O’Sullivan, “ the gentle- 
man who did obtain her hand seemed so anxious to 
recover his liberty, that he, at least, would not seem 
to afford any proof of the lady’s powers of bestowing 
happiness ” 

“Hush, hush,” interposed Stapylton ; “do not 
philosophize any longer — here comes Lady Jacintha.” 

The various members of the family now entered 
the room, and took their places at the breakfast-table. 
Lady Jacintha’s forced composure of manner, and 
certain traces of recent indulgence in sorrow which 
she had not been perfectly successful in effacing, re- 
vealed to O’Sullivan’s quick perception that her heart 
was not at ease. Baron Leschen was planted at her 
side, and was indefatigable in his efforts to amuse and 
enliven her. His endeavors appeared to succeed, es- 
pecially when reinforced by an epistle that arrived by 
the morning’s post from the Princess Gruffenhausen, 
whose description of the stately, etiquettical, and phi- 
losophical hizarreries of the Serene Fatalist’s court of 
Krunks-Doukerstein, elicited a smile from her lady- 
ship. 

TOL. II. 


13 


146 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


The letter of our animated and amusing acquain- 
tance the ex-widow, we may take a future opportuni- 
ty of presenting to our readers. 




CHAPTER XVII. 


Gibbet. — Well, gentlemen, ’tis a fine night for our enterprise. 

Beaux Stratagem. 

In about a week, the following brief billet was pop- 
ped into O’Sullivan’s hands by our old friend Padhre, 
whose debut on the stage of this veracious drama was 
made in the character of guardian to Father John 
O’Connor’s sporting provision -store, somewhere in our 
first or second chapter. Thus ran the billet of which 
Padhre was the bearer : — 

“ I write from Beamish’s humble inn at the cross 
roads near Dwyer’s Gift. I saw' your departure from 
Dublin announced in the papers, and I traced you im- 
mediately to Dwyer’s Gift, and thence to Knockanea. 
I have followed you to claim your promise to assist me 
in the sale of my little trousseau ; I dare say you 
could coax a larger sum from Baron Leschen for it, 
than from any body else. I want much to see you 
about that, as well as other matters. Meet me to- 
night in the woodland path that leads to the old bridge 
of Glen Minnis ; whether you answer this or not, I shall 
await you at the end of the path at seven o’clock pre- 
cisely. 

“ I am, ( alas !) dear Henry, 

“ Too, too truly yours !” 

“ She ’s a beautiful craiture, masther Henry, whoev- 
er she is,” observed Padhre, w'hen he saw that O’Sul- 
livan had finished reading the note ; “ is she any rela- 
tion to your honor ?” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


147 


“ No,” answered Henry. 

“ Why then, I ’d make bould to tell your honor 
” Padhre paused. 

“ Speak out, Padhre, whatever you have got to 
say.” 

“ Your honor won’t be angry, if I do ?” 

“ Most certainly not.” 

“ Well, then, what I’ve got to say is this; I don’t 
suspect your honor of any thing that isn’t quite right ; 
but if it ’s private business that ’s bringing you to meet 
this handsome lady, I can tell you I ’ve a notion you ’ll 
be watched.” 

“ Watched !” 

“Ay, watched, your honor. I was slashing along 
to your honor after getting the note from the lady, 
and who should come up to me but Maccleston, Mr. 
Fitzroy Mordaunt’s new English vvally-de-sham ; and, 

‘ 1 say, boy,’ says he, ‘ who was that lady that I heard 
desiring you to bid Mr. Henry O’Sullivan to be cer- 
tain to meet her at the time and place mentioned in 
the note ?’ 6 Botheration, Mr. Maccleston/ says I, • is 

it dreaming, or what is it, you ’d be ?’ ‘ Ah, my lad,’ 

says he again, ‘ I ’in quite too ould a cock to be 
caught wid chaff, but I see you ’re an early bird, any- 
how.’ With that he winked, and off wid him. Now, 
as sure as a gun, he’ll tell all that to his master when 
he ’s curling his hair, for every body about the great 
house knows, that he fetches and carries news for Mr. 
Fitz., just all as one as any spaniel.” 

Padhre’s suspicions were well founded. Maccles- 
ton, in his humble department, was a constant caterer 
of gossip for his master. Of course, when arranging 
Fitzroy’s chevelure before dinner, all that he had 
heard, all that he had fancied, and much that he did not 
hear, was copiously detailed for his master’s delectation. 

* “ Stapylton,” said Fitzroy exultingly, “ I ’ve made 
an invaluable discovery — an assignation ! between an 
anonymous charmer, of whom I can only learn that 
she is transcendently beautiful, and — pray whom do 
you think ?’’ 


148 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ Lord Ballyvallin.” 

“Pshaw ! nonsense — guess again.” 

“ Anastasius Montgomery Wingcote, the interesting 
pulpit roue” 

“Worse and worse! Come — I see your obesity 
will never be able to discover, without my assistance. 
What think you of O’Sullivan ? aye, laugh you may — 
our immaculate monitor, our spotless moralist, our 
stern instructor in the paths of rectitude.” 

“ It’s devilish good, certainly,” said Stapylton, en- 
joying the discovery : “ what a capital idea it would 
be, Fitzroy, if one could get a set of trusty fellows to 
watch the amorous pair, and as soon as their tender 
endearments were commenced, to make a sudden rush 
. upon them both, and toss them together in a blanket !” 

“Inimitable, faith! inimitable!” exclaimed Mor- 
daunt in an ecstacy. “ O, the rich idea of catching 
the' exalted moralist with his darling Dollabella ! and 
richer still, of tossing the magnificent citizen of eter- 
nity in a blanket ! By all that's comical we ’ll do it — 
we ’ll do it ” 

“ If you can get trusty men on whose fidelity you 
can rely, which I very much doubt," observed Stapyl- 
ton. 

“ Ob, Maccleston, I ’m certain, can manage all 
that,” replied Mordaunt ; “money does wonders, you 
know ; and it ’s really worth bribing a few scoundrels, 
to enjoy the satisfaction of blanketing the eternity- 
man . The ‘ citizen of the universe !’ the intolerable 
puppy ! affecting such airs of supremacy, on the score 
of his pretended sanctity.” 

Maccleston was summoned, received his instruc- 
tions, and entered with spirited zeal into his master’s 
frolic. 

“ Mind,” said Fitzroy, “ the fellows must wear black 
crape upon their faces, for one would wish to spare 
them the danger of being recognised, when embark- 
ing in such an adventure.” 

“ Certainly, Sir,” replied the acquiescent valet ; 
“ but the nights are very dark.” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


149 


“ And ; Maccleston, are you positively sure that the 
bridge of Glen Minnis is the place, and seven o’clock 
the hour ?” 

“ As sure as my ears could make me, Sir; I was 
standing close behind the stable door, and the lady 
gave Padhre the message and note in the doorway.” 

Maccleston immediately proceeded to execute his 
master’s orders. He engaged four trusty fellows to 
watch at the appointed hour near Glen Minnis bridge, 
to each of whom he opened his frolicsome mission with 
the acceptable earnest of a golden douceur , accompa- 
nied with an assurance that the guerdon would be tre- 
bled, if the result of their enterprise should answer 
their employer’s expectations. “ You ’re all stout 
Irish boys,” said the dexterous envoy, with insinuating 
national flattery, ‘*and I never yet heard of an Irish- 
man who wasn’t up to all manner of fun, in all its 
branches. You ’ll be sure, now, to give the lady and 
her lover a right, good, rattling, roaring, rollicking, jol- 
tering toss in the blanket ?” 

“ Oh, Mr. Maccleston, honey! niver fear us. Be 
sure now to get a strong blanket, Mr. Maccleston — 
for if you don’t, by the powers o’ fun, we ’ll rottle it 
into a riddle.” 

“ Be certain, boys, that I shall take very petticlar 
care o’ that.” 

“Tundher an’ ajers !” cried one of the quadruple 
alliance of blanket-shakers, “but my arms are jigging 
already to be at them.” 

“I’ve no more to say to you, genn’lmen,” quoth 
Maccleston, “ until we meet this evening, at the place 
and hour appointed ; except only to caution you all 
to observe a strict and prudent silence on the busi- 
ness.” 

“O, sartinly, sartinly, Mr. Maccleston, honey. 
We ’re the prudentest, silentest, dacentest, quietest, 
honestest set of four boys, that ever broke heads at 
the fair o’ Ballinagrab.” 

“ I haven’t a doubt in the world of it, genn’lmen,” 
responded Maccleston, “and I wish you all good day 

i a* 


150 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


until the time appointed.” And the valet bowed, 
and returned to report his success to his master. 

“ May the devil throw snuff' in your eyes, and make 
you pick your teeth with a walking-stick, you English 
spalpeen !” cried one of the “ honest, prudent, dacent 
boys,” as soon as Maccleston was out of hearing. 
“ What a green one you are, to fancy that we would 
lay so much as a finger in dishonor upon Mr. O’Sulli- 
van.” 

“ Owgh V’ exclaimed another of the party, interro- 
gatively ; “and is it masther Henry, that used to be 
out shooting with the priest, that they-want us to sky 
in a blanket ?” 

“ The very same man, Larry Mahoney.” 

“ Why then, bad luck to their impidenee. But how 
do you know masther Henry is the same V 7 

“ I know it from Padhre, the priest’s ould innocent 
that was — Troth Padhre isn’t innocent now; he’s 
got wonderful bright ! It was Padhre got the note 
from the lady at Beamish’s inn to desire masther Hen- 
ry to meet her — he tould me every sentence about it, 
before Maccleston opened his lips — and — whisper, 
boys ! I ’ve a notion who the lady is — a bird at the 
shebeen chirruped something to Padhre, and Padhre 
has a notion that he saw her half a dozen times be- 
fore, riding out with the Knockanea quality, or rowl- 
ing about in the Knockanea coach ” 

“ Yeh, Barny, who is she ?” said one of “ the 
boys.” 

“ Yerra, tell us, Barny, will you ?” said another. 

“ Botheration, Barny, will you speak ?” cried the 
third. 

“ Mrs. Fitzroy Mordaunt, and no other,” Barny an- 
swered, “ who split from her husband, and ran the 
devil’s rig besides, they say ; and Padhre says, that 
from her look, and her way, and her talk, and all 
about her, he.’d bet a new freize trusty to a pair of 
tatthered breeches, that she wants to fasten herself 
now on masther Henry’s back — they say he was her 
sweetheart long ago, before he went to Ingee, and 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


151 


then she broke her faith to him, and married that little 
grasshopper Mordaunt, that has legs like a tongs, and 
a neck like a poker, and feet like two shovels ! And to 
quit the likes of Mr. Henry for such a rapscallion as 
that! oh, blood !” 

“ And does Fitz. know his wife is the one that has 
assignated our masther Henry ?” demanded Larry 
Mahoney. 

“Not he, to be sure. If he did, I suppose he 
wouldn’t toss them together in a blanket, for all how 
bad he is.” 

“ By Saint Patrick, I ’ve amelegant plan in my head!” 
cried Larry Mahoney, snapping his fingers wdth delight. 
The self-same idea occurred simultaneously to all the 
four blanket-shakers — it rushed through their minds 
like electricity, and with true Irish glee they all caper- 
ed and pranced in anticipated enjoyment of the pro- 
ject which all had alike conceived. 

Barny Delany had often in his earlier days been Hen- 
ry O’Sullivan’s shooting attendant, and was warmly 
attached to him ; and Larry Mahoney had once experi- 
enced his bounty at a period of great family distress. 
To the two other men, O’Sullivan was not personally 
known ; but they willingly adopted the favorable view 
of his character so warmly put forward by Barny and 
Larry, who would both have almost as soon bestowed 
on Saint Peter as on “ masther Henry,” the salutifer- 
ous and somewhat sudorific exercise to which Mor- 
daunt and Stapylton had destined the unsuspecting 
O’Sullivan. 

Lord Bally vallin never dined until eight o’clock, so 
that Mordaunt calculated he should have ample time 
for his frolic before dinner. The night was very dark 
and frosty ; but he ventured to encounter the chill air, 
enveloped in an ample Spanish cloak. Desirous to 
avoid being prematurely seen by the fair incognita, he 
avoided the footway ; and accompanied by Stapylton, 
Maccleston, and “ the quiet, dacent boys,” he advanced 
with noiseless steps along a grassy glade, well known 
to his rustic attendants, that swept in a gentle curve 


152 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


through the centre of the wood, and opened on the 
pathway at the bottom of the glen. They were not 
long stationed in the spot selected by Barny, who acted 
as guide to the localities, when a form was faintly, very 
faintly, discerned in the darkness, emerging from the 
shadowy woodland path upon the bridge. 

“ I wonder whether that is the cock or the hen ?” 
whispered Mordaunt to Stapylton. 

“ Oh, the hen, certainly; I think I saw the waving 
of a veil, and as well as I can discern in the gloom, 
O’Sullivan is much taller.” 

The lady, meanwhile, quite unconscious of her 
proximity to the hidden host, reclined on the mossy 
battlement of the bridge. She crossed her hands up- 
on her breast, in anxious, pensive expectation : but 
this movement, of course, was invisible to Mordaunt 
and his party. Ten minutes thus elapsed, and to the 
fidgetty impatience of Fitzroy they seemed as many 
hours. 

“Deuce take our virtuous precisian,” said he to 
Stapylton ; “ what if he does not mean to keep his 
assignation ?” 

Barny overheard this whisper, and instantly profit- 
ed by it. Breathing his instructions into Larry’s ear, 
he stealthily moved away some paces from his party ; 
and then, suddenly emerging on the bridge from a 
different part of the wood, he confidently approached 
the fair veiled form that reclined against the battle- 
ment. 

“ My own, own Henry !” faltered forth Mrs. Mor- 
daunt, in the very faintest accents audible ; “ my heart 
told me that you would not disappoint my hope of 
meeting you.” 

Barny Delany had infinitely too much tact to haz- 
ard a shriek, or a premature discovery, by attempting 
to reply ; he therefore only sighed. 

“Will we tip ’em the blanket now, your honor?” 
whispered Larry to Fitzroy. 

“ Yes — by all means,” answered the party appealed 
to. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


153 


Immediately the adventurous Fitzroy found himself 
whisked aloft by some half dozen stalwart arms, and 
as suddenly consigned to the womb of a capacious 
fleecy blanket, in companionship with the fair un- 
known, who joined her screams with his furious threats 
and exclamations. 

The whole movement was so instantaneous, so to- 
tally unexpected, and the'darkness around was such 
an effectual aid to the plot of the blanket-shakers, that 
neither Stapylton nor Maccleston were in the least 
aware that Fitzroy enjoyed, in person, the honors he 
had destined for O’Sullivan. His cries for emancipa- 
tion from his fleecy prison were nearly stifled in their 
utterance ; and both his friend and his valet, for some 
minutes, were under the undoubting impression that 
Mr. Henry O’Sullivan was suffering the pains and 
penalties of a first-rate tossing. It appeared that 
Barny and Larry had secured the assistance of Padhre, 
and some other volunteers ; for the instant that their 
brawny arms felt at all fatigued from the weight of 
the blanket and its contents, their places were taken 
by a fresh detachment, who performed their arduous 
duties U merveille. 

“ Blood and thunder !” roared Fitzroy ; “ let me 
out — I shall be stifled — choaked !” 

“ Shake him well, Jerry Hennigan — never crack cry, 

| my boy.” 

“Damn you for a pack of savage vagabonds — will 
you let me out before I ’m dead, I say ?” 

“ Shake away, like blazes, boys ! shake as if you 
j never shuck before !” and the shaking was fearfully 
! redoubled. 

“ O, for pity’s sake, let us out ! let us out !” cried 
1 Lucinda. 

“ Hell and furies 1” yelled Mordaunt, “ my wife’s 
voice! Stapylton — Maccleston! let me out of this 
cursed stifling cage! she is sticking her nails in my 
eyes, I tell you. Damnation ! will you let me out ? 
She ’ll scratch me to pieces !” 

“ Shake away, my hearties !” roared out Barny ; 


154 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ nothing like it, boys ! shake ! rowl ! jumble them 
into good humor with each other.” 

“ Stapylton ! Maccleston ! Maccleston ! Stapylton ! 

I tell you this d d she-tiger won’t leave an inch 

of skin unscratched upon rny face ! Have you no 
compassion ?” 

“Execrable man!” screamed Lucinda; “what 
odious, unprincipled trick is intended VI 

The merciless Barny and Co. continued to shake 
unremittingly. The inmates of the blanket suffered 
such awkward contusions from their frequent concus- 
sions, that, in order to avoid their recurrence, they 
were at length compelled, in self-defence, to embrace 
each other with as firm a grasp as the incessant bump- 
ing and jerking permitted. Never was so firm an 
embrace bestowed with such cordial, mutual detesta- 
tion, on the part of the embracers. Clasped in each 
other’s arms, they interspersed their cries for liberation 
with the bitterest taunts, the most pungent crimina- 
tions, and recriminations. 

* “ Barny ! Larry !” cried Mordaunt, “ I ’ll give you 

gold if you ’ll only let me out — this she-bear will hug 
me to death, if you don’t. I ’ve no more chance with 
her than a cat in hell without claws.” 

When the blanket-shakers conceived that punish- 
ment enough had been inflicted upon Mordaunt, they 
then (and not one moment sooner) released him from 
his durance. Lucinda, in despair of seeing O’Sulli- 
van, crawled back to her miserable inn, more dead 
than alive ; and Fitzroy, who was wholly unable to 
walk, was hoisted home to Knockanea, panting, 
breathless, and exhausted, on the shoulders of Stapyl- 
ton and Maccleston. 

“ Why the devil did you not let me out ?” he an- 
grily said. 

“Because, my dear fellow,” said Stapylton, “ some 
minutes had elapsed before we found out that you 
were in; and when at length a complaining stave or 
two did reach our ears from your woolen prison, you 
informed us that your wife was caged up with you 


155 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 

there. Now, even had Barny and his lusty crew per- 
mitted us, you know that politeness would have cer- 
tainly prevented our rudely breaking in upon a con- 
jugal tete-a-tete.” 

Fitzroy replied with a wrathful execration, and 
swore he would fight Stapylton and dismiss Maccles- 
ton. Stapylton swore, in return, that lie would not 
fight Fitzroy ; and Maccleston pleaded his own cause 
with dexterous address. 

On entering the house Fitzroy resumed his feet, 
much to the relief of his bearers; but his wrathful 
emotions were awfully aroused on beholding the “ ci- 
tizen of eternity/’ as he spitefully nicknamed O’Sulli- 
van, walking through the hall to the dining-room in 
innocent unconsciousness of all that had occurred. 
On receiving Lucinda’s note, O’Sullivan had prompt- 
ly resolved that he would not meet the writer. The 
scene he had witnessed at the masquerade had fully 
revealed her real character, and confirmed the truth of 
Dowton’s information. He addressed to her a cold, 

; admonitory letter, in which he stated his positive reso- 
lution never again to meet her on terms of acquaint- 
ance ; stating his motives for forming an unfavorable 
opinion of her discretion, and impressively exhibiting 
the awful termination of her present course of life, 

; from which, as a Christian and a fellow-being, he ear- 
( nestly implored her to desist. 

This epistle awaited her at Beamish’s inn on return- 
ing from her blanketeering adventure. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

And now, sweet Peace, our bosoms deign to bless, 

Thou foretaste of celestial happiness ! 

Our’s, if we walk in virtue’s straitened path ; 

Rich jewel that the dissolute ne’er hath! 

Webber. 

“ And now/’ said Kavanagh to O’Sullivan, when 


156 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


they met once more at castle Kavanagh, “ you have 
gone through a tolerably respectable portion of scenes 
and adventures, and will you allow an old friend to 
take the liberty of asking if you will still persist in add- 
ing matrimony to the number of your exploits V ’ 

“ I do not think that such a denoument is absolutely 
necessary/’ answered O’Sullivan, laughing ; “ never- 
theless, 1 am now, thank Heaven, perfectly heart-whole, 
and have not the smallest objection to act under pru- 
dent advice on a question so important. Candidly, 
what w ould you recommend me to do VJ 

“ To marry Isabella,” replied Kavanagh. 

“ To marry Isabella ! I beg pardoq for repeating 
your words, but I should really have deemed such an 
allience so unattainable, so ” 

“ Of course I mean,” resumed Kavanagh, deliberate- 
ly, “ providing that she will marry you , and that you 
have no objection.” 

“ Both indispensable preliminaries, certainly. For 
the last, I know not yet if I can answer; but for the 
first ” 

“ Why should you deem my niece’s hand unattain- 
able ?” asked Kavanagh. 

u Because I had fancied that Mr. Jonathan Lucas 
and Mordaunt had given her such a dislike to our sex 
as could not be lightly or easily surmounted.” 

“ They unquestionably taught her to look sharp, 
and trained her to detest all selfishness, hypocrisy, and 
double-dealing. But I am very much mistaken if Isa- 
bella has been merely a one-sided pupil ; she has also 
learned, not only to prize, but to discern, the exist- 
ence of virtue in our sex ; and even if the excellent 
principles in which she was trained had not previous- 
ly taught her the lesson, she would have seen, from 
Fitzroy’s odious conduct to his miserable wife, how wo- 
fully a woman mistakes who seeks happiness in becom- 
ing connected with a roue . Now you y my dear young 
friend, have invariable held libertinism in contempt. 
Believe me that this is a merit to which Isabella’s ex- 
perience has trained her to be eminently sensible. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


157 


Try your chance with her at once, and may fortune 
favor your enterprise.” . 

O’Sullivan said that an immediate decision was im- 
possible ; that, however, so exceedingly tempting a 
suggestion should receive, as it merited, his best con- 
sideration. 

Meanwhile, Knockanea became the scene of a nup- 
tial festivity. 

Lady Jacintha had been long and passionately at- 
tached to Baron Leschen, whose protracted residence 
at her father’s house had enabled her to see, or to fan- 
l cy that she saw, in the Baron, a strong and increasing 
attachment to herself. Yet the magic words, so ar- 
dently expected, were as yet un pronounced ; those 
words, for which the voluptuous whirl of the waltz, 
or the soft alternation of repose upon the pillowed otto- 
man, afford such deliciously tempting facilities. For 
some time the rival charms of Mrs. Mersey accounted 
for Leschen’s delay in the offer of his hand ; his heart 
was in all probability held in cruel equipoise by the 
conflicting attractions of “ dat lifelich widow” and 
Lady Jacintha. This cause, however, had been long 
removed, for the ex-Mersey had been swept off* in the 
telegraphic vrowtchsk to preside at Krunks-Douker- 
stein. Meanwhile, Baron Leschen said agreeable 
things, looked delightful things, and sighed unuttera- 
ble things. Notwithstanding repeated delay, Lady 
Jacintha experienced an internal hope, amounting 
nearly to assurance, that sometime or other the agree- 
able and handsome German would propose. She 
knew the slow solidity of the German character ; she 
knew the ample time that Germans usually took, ere 
deciding upon any measure of importance ; in fact, 
the only exception she had ever met to the stately, 
slow, solemnity of German movements, was the wing- 
ed fleetness of the Fatalist’s whirlwind vrowtchsk, 
which had more than once threatened the limbs and 
lives of its terrified occupants. But Leschen drove 
no electric vrowtchsk of this description, and was sat- 
isfied that things should take their sober course, at the 
vol. ir. 14 


158 


THE HUSBAND-JHUNTER. 


usual moderate Teutonic rate. Since the Fatalist’s 
departure, he had not so much as once adverted to 
the rapid, mystic Destiny that sits on the coach-box of 
human events, capriciously jerking the reins at the 
most inconvenient and perplexing junctures. For 
Leschen, “ the Mighty and Ponderous Mystery” ap- 
peared to possess no charms. Content to dwell 
among realities, he gazed for almost two years on the 
charms of Lady Jacintha ; and then, when her lady- 
ship w 7 as just on the eve of resolving to entrust her 
matrimonal destinies to the chances of a London sea- 
son, he opened his lips, and out crept the long-expect- 
ed declaration. 

Her ladyship’s reply was in the affirmative. 

“ I tank you, mine dear lady,” said the grateful 
Baron, pressing her fair hand to his lips; “ I fery 
much tank you, indeed. I am fery, fery habby, now. 
O yes, indeed — mine heart enjoys perfect felicity.” 

Lady Jacintha internally wondered that the Baron 
had not long before made an effort to acquire the pos- 
session of perfect felicity. 

“ I would haf made de offer of mine hand to you 
long time ago,” said Leschen, “ only dat it has not 
efer been de customs of our family to do tings in any 
haste. Mine great, great-grandfader, Count Ethel- 
bold Wolfganger Kleigenmaiier, vas feifteen years 
making love to de beautiful Adeline Hartsburgh, and 
at last dey were married in great splendor. Mine 
grandfader shortened de period to twelf years; and 
my own honored fader abridged it still furder to ten. 
And I — oh, yes, yes indeed ! most charming and ami- 
able Jacintha ! haf shortened it for your dear, pre- 
cious sake, beyond all de examples you can find, if 
you search in de books of our House dat contain all 
our Chronicles, in de archives of de left-hand wing of 
de old baronial Library of mine castell of Schloss- 
Leschenhaus.” 

Lady Jacintha smiled her very best ; and felt, as in 
duty bound, a sufficient share of gratitude for the ar- 
dent attachment that had spurred her steady German 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


159 

lover to a haste so utterly unprecedented in the so- 
lemn and stately amors of his baronial ancestry. 

A day was fixed for the celebration of the nuptials; 
but an event occurred which necessarily interposed a 
brief delay. What this occurrence was, we shall 
leave Mr. Walton to explain. 




CHAPTER XIX. 


And is he gone ? for ever gone ? 

Monody on the Death of his Most Sacred Majesty. 

George IV. 

FROM THE REV. HERBERT WALTON TO THE REV. 

JOHN O’CONNOR. 

£< My dear friend, 

“ At your request I write a brief de- 
tail of the dying hours of Mr. Fitzroy Mordaunt. 
The unhappy libertine is dead. Stapylton was in the 
room at the time, and I trust that the awful spectacle 
will teach him to think ; a lesson which I much fear 
Mordaunt never learned till too late. 

“ Mordaunt’s health, you are aware, had long been 
in an extremely precarious condition ; about a fort- 
night ago, however, he rallied for some days, but this 
brief amendment was speedily followed by a danger- 
ous relapse, which was partly brought on, I believe, 
by his disregarding the orders his physician had given 
respecting his diet. 

“ Notwithstanding the severity of a disease induc- 
ed by profligate indulgence, the wretched invalid does 
not seem to have yielded his mind to a single impres- 
sion that could tend to improve his prospects of eter- 
nity. I incessantly urged all that the precepts of the 
Gospel so clearly and expressively enforce * but I was 


160 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


met with callous inattention, and sometimes with 
sneers. 

“ Meanwhile the sands of life were running fast; 
no mortal hand could stay their rapid progress. The 
physician said that yesterday would prove the crisis: 
his opinion was correct. 

“ Morning dawned; the last that was destined to 
rise on the mortal career of the miserable Mordaunt. 
He now, for the first time, seemed to be thoroughly 
aware of the unspeakable horrors of his dreadful con- 
dition. Oh, how awful, how unutterably hideous, is 
the state of a being whose mind is first awakened to 
a full sense of religious duties trampled on, religious 
obligations scorned and neglected, when stretched 
upon the bed of death ! when, yet a few more fleet- 
ing moments, and the soul will be tried and judged 
by the law she has habitually broken, spurned, and 
defied ! 

“ Such was the condition of Fitzroy. May I nev- 
er, never, witness such another dying scene ! The 
agony of his mind made him callous to the torture of 
his body. He felt that he was dying, yet not a single 
ray of hope or comfort beamed on the boundless, the 
unfathomable gulph into which he was inevitably has- 
tening. He grasped the objects that were nearest — 
he clung to the curtains, to the bedclothes, as if by so 
doing he could lay a detaining hold on life ; he cast a 
convulsive look at me , as if I could assist him to avert 
the final agony. At length his struggles ceased, and 
the body lay still. 

“ But the soul whither had she flown ? 

“ The miserable libertine is gone ; and his cheerless, 
hopeless, yet instructive death, elicited a fervent pray- 
er from Stapylton, that his own latter hour might not 
resemble that of Mordaunt. 

u Oh, my valued friend, how transcendency beauti- 
ful is the holiness of youth ! how lovely to behold the 
early morning of the Christian’s life, his youthful 
health, and strength, and vigor, devoted to his Mak- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


161 


er’s service ! to see him advancing with humble, yet 
undeviating steps, along that path which alone can 
conduct him to eventual happiness! 

“ What unspeakable fatuity to calculate, as many 
deliberately do, that God will accept the dregs, the 
refuse of our lives, if their spring-tide strength and 
freshness have been wasted in the service of Satan ! 

“ ‘ Be not deceived/ says Saint Paul ; ‘ for those 
who do these things shall in no wise enter into the 
kingdom of heaven.’ 

“Let us both incessantly urge this immortal truth 
upon our flocks ; it is one on which no difference of 
opinion can exist between our churches. 

“ I am, my dear Sir, 

“ Your attached and faithful friend, 

“Herbert Walton/ 3 

<! Knockanea, 

“December 18, 1834.” 


Father O’Connor perused his friend’s letter with 
deep interest, and carefully put it in his desk, to enrich 
a collection of similar details of ministerial experience, 
in which he was anxiously engaged. 

O, that the vicious and dissolute might witness the 
unspeakable pangs of such an end as Mordaunt’s ! 
the spectacle would teach them, in language more for- 
cible than words, the awful fatuity of those who never 
labor to make the requisite provision for that great and 
final journey that awaits all men at the close of their 
mortal existence. 

“It is all too true/’ exclaimed Stapylton, who was 
deeply impressed with what he had witnessed ; “ men 
who would not travel from Dover to Calais without 
making ample, nay, superfluous preparation for every 
comfort on the passage, spend the whole of their lives 
without making a single preparation for the all import 
tant journey from Time to Eternity ! in sober truth, 
the immoral man is an ineffable idiot, if wisdom con- 
sists (as it certainly does) in making the concerns of 
the greatest importance our principal object. Thera 
14 * 


162 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


lies poor Mdrdaunt, stark and stiff — and where, where 
in the name of common sense, are all his poisonous 
pleasures now 1 what advantage does he now derive 
from all the seductive blandishments, the ensnaring 
indulgences, that lured him to destruction ?” 

“ Ay,” observed Walton, who was pleased at the 
salutary lesson that Stapylton derived from the death 
of the profligate — “ we may ask, in the language of 
Saint Paul, 4 What profit have ye, in the things where- 
of ye are now ashamed V ” 

Fitzroy’s remains were forwarded to Yorkshire for 
interment in the family vault. A strange predilection 
this, and one with which the writer of these pages 
entertains no sympathy. Doubtless, if we die in the 
vicinage of our hereditary cemetery, no reason exists 
why our bones should not lie side by side with the 
bones of our fathers. But if we die at a distance 
from our family burying-place, it is hard to assign a 
rational cause for the inconvenient and expensive 
transfer of a poor unconscious carcase, merely in order 
to place it in the subterranean company of a particu- 
lar set of the decaying relics of mortality. At all such 
post-mortem expeditions (a^d, indeed, at fully five- 
sixths of ordinary funeral honors) the writer feels 
strongly impelled to exclaim, in the cynical language 
of Prince Gruffenhausen — “ Pofe ! it is all one great 
foolishness !” Few things, indeed, appear more ab- 
surdly and lamentably ludicrous (at least in our hum- 
ble estimation) than the notion of whisking a corpse 
across the empire, in order that a senseless mass of 
mouldering clay should be formally deposited in the 
midst of any particular subterranean coterie ! presum- 
ing, as we modestly venture to do, that the juxtaposi- 
tion is not fraught with any interest either to the in- 
animate tourist himself, or to the previously assembled 
relics of his race, among which he is placed by the 
family-pride of the survivors. 

We return for a moment to Lucinda. To such as 
feel interested in the due development of minor details, 
we may mention that the fickle Sir Henry Bradford, 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


1 63 


smitten with the charms of some new enchantress, 
had deserted her immediately after the commencement 
of their unprincipled connexion. She forthwith made 
the effort, of which the reader is aware, to regain her 
influence over O’Sullivan ; an effort which O’Sullivan’s 
good sense and deeply rooted principle, aided by a 
full, though tardy knowledge of her character, enabled 
him to defeat. Her brother, strongly urged by Kava- 
nagli’s remonstrances, extended to his erring and un- 
fortunate sister, the hand of fraternal charity and re- 
conciliation. She now inhabits a cottage near Marta- 
gon, where she lives in the deepest retirement. That 
instruction, which if given in her childhood might 
probably have shielded her against the crimes and 
follies into which she fell, is now imparted to her by 
an excellent divine, who assures us that he entertains 
warm hopes that the strength and fervor of her peni- 
tence may equal the extent of her former iniquities. 


5 > 


CHAPTER XX. 


Oh, what a plague is etiquette ! 

"Stephen Rackett’s Adventures. 

Heu Highness, the ex-widow, was by no means ob- 
livious of her Irish friends. Ere she became aware 
of Lady Jacintha’s union with Leschen, the princess 
indited "the following epistle to her ladyship : 

“ Krunks-Doukerstein, October 14, 1834. 

“ You tell me, my dearest Jacintha, that you feel 
much anxiety to know if the torch of the German Hy- 
men is unfading in its lustre, and undying in its warmth. 
The question is certainly a natural one, from a wo- 
man in your present circumstances; nevertheless I 
should scarcely think that a matrimonial flambeau in 
the Fatalist’s hands, could enable you to form a cor- 


104 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


rect idea of the fervor or brightness of a torch such 
as Leschen would unquestionably wield. 

“ You say Leschen is slow. My dear, his ancestry 
were slower. They made love at a snail’s pace. They 
marched with a solemn, measured, pompous step 
through Cupid’s flowery paths, conceiving that the 
sportive and frolicsome evolutions of many of his little 
winged godship’s customers, were altogether inconsis- 
tent with the stately honors and hereditary dignity of 
the antediluvian house of Leschen. You will make 
allowances for hereditary practices and prejudices in a 
far-descended German baron ; and I fervently entreat 
you to assure yourself that Leschen loves you ; he is 
doubtless somewhat slow in bringing forth his declara- 
tion ; but if I know any thing of men (and I modestly 
conceive my own experience unimpeachable), I tell you 
that out it will eventually come. And do not try to 
hurry him, or pique his jealousy by affecting partiality 
for any body else. Leschen is not the man to be won 
by those tactics, and we both are agreed that he is well 
worth winning. All that remains for you is patience ; 
occasional displays of sensibility (for Leschen is one 
of the kindest hearted creatures breathing) ; indefati- 
gable waltzing when your friend is so disposed ; un- 
ruffled self-possession and good temper in all possible 
emergencies ; incidental tales of the pre-Adamite 
power and glory of your barbarous O’Callaghan ances- 
try, in order to convince him that you stand on a level 
with the Leschens, and the Wittemboldts, and Grump- 
penbergs ; and firstly, secondly, and lastly, — patience, 
patience, patience 1 

“ Now, Love, after having thus offered you my 
counsel, and expressed my expectation that if follow- 
ed it will lead you to success, I must proceed to reply 
to your inquiries respecting the agemens of my own 
hymeneal lot; which I do, with a fervent desire that 
your’s may be a happier one. 

“ The castle of Krunks-Doukerstein is a structure 
of vast strength and extent, fortified, and double for- 
tified with bastions, entrenchments and outworks in- 


the husband-hunter. 


165 


numerable, which stretch along the summit of a steep 
and ridgy height, at the foot of which rolls along the 
broad, deep Rhine. 

“ You know my ardent enthusiasm for wild scenery, 
and how fearlessly I used to climb the wild rocks of 
Glengarriflf, and Ghoul, and Hungarie hill. The scene- 
ry here is magnificent, but, alas ! I can only enjoy it 
from my windows, or from the esplanades and terraces ; 
for one morning soon after my arrival, I was tempted 
by its beauty to extend my walk beyond the limits of his 
highness’s park, when, lo ! I was suddenly recalled by 
the timely admonition of a gatekeeper, who warned 
me that the woods were infested with bears. I ac- 
cordingly made haste to return, as you may easily ima- 
gine. An embrace from a bear would be far more 
disagreeable in its results than an embrace from my 
most serene, though somewhat bearish spouse. My 
walks have, of course, been ever since restricted to the 
park, which, though large, is so sunk among hills of 
unattainable height, that it commands no external 
viSw ; and to the gardens, which, to do them every 
justice, are designed with exquisite judgment, and 
kept with princely magnificence. 

“ Now for my conjugal comforts — um — I don’t 
well know what sort of sermon to preach upon this 
text, Jacintha. 

u You w r ould scarcely have imagined, from the air 
of philosophic and contemptuous cynicism, with which 
his highness habitually regarded all things not imme- 
diately connected with the solemn study of Das Schik- 
sal, that in very truth he is as strict a martinet in the 
most insignificant minutiae of courtly etiquette, as the 
merest master of the ceremonies extant. Regardless 
himself of even the requirements of ordinary biense- 
ances , lie is strict to a ludicrous degree in enforcing 
obedience to his ceremonial dicta on the part of all 
others. Last evening I saw his serene physiognomy 
redden, and quickly lose all traces of serenity ; certain 
sounds of angry import quickly found their way through 
the superincumbent moustache ; T looked around for 


166 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


the object of his highness’s ire, and at length ascer- 
tained that the culprit was a brave old field-marshal 
who had done good service in the wars of the empire, 
and whose present offence consisted in his making his 
appearance at our highness’s court, with only two , in- 
stead of three rows of lace upon his collar, or some 
such foolery, in defiance of a recent sumptuary regu- 
lation promulged by the monarch of Krunks-Douker- 
stein ! 

“ But if all the miseries of serene etiquette, were 
confined to a few such external ebullitions as this, I 
should not much care, although 1 should undoubtedly 
smile at these traits in a man whose unceasing excla- 
mation at the ordinary concerns of life, was ‘ Pofe ! it 
is all von grand foolishness!’ But oh, my Jacintha, 
^may you never know what it is to live, to move, to 
have your being, in an atmosphere of princely etiquette 
such as that to which I am condemned ; and which 
mingles strangely with some of his highness’s pursuits. 

“The hairy prince, you are aware, is un peu philo- 
sophe; and accordingly, three evenings in every week 
are set apart for the assembling of a coterie of sga- 
vans ; whose enlightened conclave I am peremptorily 
summoned to join. These sgavans, as well as the 
prince, smoke cigars with true German empressement ; 
so that I am nearly suffocated in the mingled vapors 
of philosophy, and India’s potent weed. 

“You will naturally think that deliberations thus 
arranged, evaporate in fumo; and truly I cannot 
see that the ‘ ponderous mysteries,’ the ‘ mighty doc- 
trines,’ or the philosophical conceptions broached on 
these occasions, appear likely to produce any practical 
result. Our learned society comprises an astrologer 
(an astrologer, Jacintha, in the nineteenth century !) 
two oriental travelers : a man, who says he almost suc- 
ceeded in achieving the resuscitation of a mummy in 
one of the Egyptian pyramids ; musicians, historians, 
physicians, and a mathematician who confidently speaks 
of being able to discover the perpetual motion. I am 
sometimes compelled to take part in these profound 




THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


167 


deliberations, for if I waxed sulky, and stubbornly 
held my peace, his highness would not feel the small- 
est hesitation in exclaiming, 

44 4 Speak, mine Wife of Destiny 1 show these learn- 
ed philosophers that it has not been mine schiksal to 
be married to a senseless, brainless, fraiienzimmer. 
Mein wort ! you nefer ceased to chatter before we 
were married, and I schwear by de Hand of Glory 
dat you shan’t be silent now !’ 

44 Accordingly, all I have for it, is to be as philo- 
sophical as any of our learned coterie, who repeatedly 
appeal to my opinion on contested points, as they per- 
ceive that the Prince is thus indirectly, but effectually, 
flattered. The mathematician asked me, a few nights 
since, my opinion of*his theory of the perpetual mo- 
tion. 4 My good Glauberstein,’ said I, 4 1 admire it 
much, but I far prefer my own. Perhaps you are not 
aware that I discovered the perpetual motion many 
years ago.’ 

44 4 Mine heafens !’ exclaimed Glauberstein, emitting 
a voluminous cloud from his cigar; 4 but your high- 
ness is a marfellous philosophrix ! And may i ask 
what is the originating principle, in your highness’s 
theory, of this wonderful perpetual motion?’ 

4 4 4 Self-interest,’ answered I, with great gravity, 

4 has, in all ages of the world, been the source of per- 
petual motion. Self-interest keeps all the world astir 
— self-interest produces more exertion, more alacrity, 
more effort, in short, more ceaseless energy than all 
other causes united. It is the real perpetual motion .’ 

44 His highness condescended to approve. 4 Of 
course you mean a moral motion, Madam ?’ said the 
mathematician. 

44 4 Moral and physical,’ said his highness ; 4 mine 
Wife of Destiny has spoken words of wisdom. Pofe ! 
pofe ! pofe !’ These 4 pofes !’ you will observe, were 
not cynical exclamations; they were merely the com- 
placent ejections of cigar-smoke. 

44 But the most provoking portion of the minutely 
elaborate and interminable etiquette of the House of 


168 


THE HU SB AN D-H UN TE It . 


Krunks-Doukerstein, is the stately ceremonial that en- 
cumbers our motions in the naturally simple process 
of going to bed. Eleven o’clock no sooner strikes, 
than the folding-doors of the great saloon fly open. 
His highness bows with an air of surly condescension 
to his courtiers, who quit the apartment at the signal, 
and assemble in a spacious hall, on each side of which, 
a broad, easy staircase of marble, with gilded balus- 
ters, ascends to a gallery which overlooks the hall. In 
the centre of this gallery there is a door that opens 
on our dormitory suite. The ceremonial of ascending 
these staircases is a terrible trial of one’s patience. I 
mount the right-hand stair with measured step, my 
train borne up by two youthful pages, and my progress 
accompanied by six nymphs clothed in azure silk and 
silver tissue, bearing blazing tapers in their hands. 
Keeping accurate pace with my advances, Prince 
Gruffenhausen slowly marches up the left-hand stair, 
his train supported also by a brace of pages, and his 
steps illuminated by the brilliant tapers borne by six 
goodly youths bedecked in glittering liveries. When 
half our ascent has been accomplished, we make a 
sudden halt ; there is a clash of cymbals and trian- 
gles ; his highness looks over at his Wife of Destiny, 
and bows; I return Ins serene salute with my state- 
liest, most graceful curtesy. Our rival cavalcades are 
then once more in motion, until we reach the door of 
the dormitory suite. Here there is another halt ; the 
prince approaches me, waves his hand, and says, 4 En- 
ter your dormitory, Madam.’ I accordingly march 
forward, holding up my head extremely high, with an 
air of incomparable dignity ; and in less than a minute 
I am followed by a gentleman-usher, who enters the 
ante-room, and asks me whether his highness, the 
prince, has permission to follow ? I very graciously 
reply in the affirmative, on which the Serene Man en- 
ters. This important event is immediately announc- 
ed by a stunning roll upon the Turkish drum, which 
is echoed by roll after roll along the esplanades, and 
bastions, and outworks of the guarded and fortified 


169 


♦ 

THE HUSBAND-IIUNTER. 

castle of Krunks-Doukerstein. The prince then takes 
his seat in a fauteui! (which must have been con- 
structed when giants inhabited the earth), and calls 
for his night draught. His call is instantly answered 
by three of his gentlemen, of whom one holds aside 
his right moustache, another his left, while the third 
j acts as cupbearer, holding the vessel to the lips of his 
highness, who seems to derive much satisfaction from 
this somewhat ceremonious deglutition of its contents. 
The attendants then decamp; and if the night be 
I clear, nion prince repairs to a little observatory, where 
he plunges, forthwith, into weighty calculations of his 
horoscope, aided by his friend, the astrologer. He 
lately calculated that his Schiksal had decreed his 
death upon a certain day and hour, and he awaited 
the event with extremely philosophical composure — 
the only difference displayed in his habits, so far as I 
observed, was, that during the interval, he smoked fully 
double his usual number of cigars. When the day and 
hour arrived, and proved that his astrological calcula- 
tions had deceived him, he gave utterance to a sulky 
“ Pofe !” and seemed really rather disappointed at this 
practical proof of his unskilfulness in augury. Shall I 
venture to whisper to my dearest Jacintha, that I was, 
perhaps, a little disappointed too? Adieu, love; I 
am always your affectionate 

“ Amelia-Eleonora Gruffenhausen,” 




CHAPTER XXI. 

11 faut manger pour vivre. 

* French Proverb. 

It was high festival in the great dining-hall of the 
Castle of Kfunks-Doukerstein. Prince Gruffenhausen 
occupied an elevated seat at the head of the long ta- 
ble, enjoying the luxury of tainted sucking pig, with 
VOL. II. 15 


170 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


sour cream for sauce ; which savory mess had, in for- 
mer days, been recommended to German epicures by 
the royal example of Frederick the Great. Into the 
cuisine of Schloss-Doukerstein, no modern knick- 
knackery was ever permitted to enter: The same pri- 
meval cookery, which had for centuries regaled the 
princely ancestors of the Serene Man, was still served 
up before their representative, on the same rich and 
clumsy silver, on the same stout oaken table, and in 
the same ancient hall, which had witnessed the revels 
of many a successive generation of the House of 
Gruffenhausen. The gigantic serving men, too, seem- 
ed more like rechauffes from a former age, than le- 
gitimate members of the present, with their fat, round, 
inexpressive, stolid faces ; and their muscular propor- 
tions, clad in such antiquated liveries as one some- 
times sees in the groupe of an ancient German picture. 
On the board were spread substantial brawn, huge 
chines, plethoric turkeys, and ponderous joints of old 
baronial fare. Enormous goblets flanked each plate, 
foaming with the generous Rhenish beverage, which 
was poured out from long-necked flasks by Gany- 
medes over six feet high, whose arms seemed strong 
enough to floor an ox. 

The apartment was vaulted, and wainscoted with 
oak ; and on the panels was carved the whole process 
of transferring the wild boar from his haunt in the 
forest to the table of the baron. First, he appeared 
with his head protruded from the thicket, alarmed at 
the winding of the hunter’s horn on the distant hill. 
Next, the hounds were on the scent, and the boar was 
apparently involved in some mental perplexity as to 
what he should do with himself. Successive panels 
displayed the successive stages of the chase, the death, 
the disemboweling ; and, finally, the artist, with true 
Teutonic elaboration of detail, transfixed the unwield- 
ly defunct upon the spit, and thence presented him 
upon the festive board, grotesquely skewered and de- 
corated, and with a monstrous bunch of rosemary in 
his mouth. 


THE IlUSlUND-tiuN'rtiK. 


171 


At the upper end of the apartment hung a full- 
length portrait of Prince Gruftenhausen’s great-great- 
grandfather, which bore to his worthy descendant the 
strong resemblance necessarily arising from the fact, 
that both were men of goodly stature and athletic 
build, and that both their physiognomies displayed 
the same features of substantial noses, and an eye of 
sinister expression, scowling from the shaggy fleece of 
matted hair, unconscious of tonsorial art. 

There was one portion of the dinner ceremonial, 
that, in some degree, relieved the tedious parade and 
monotony of the rest. In a gallery over the great en- 
trance, musicians were stationed, who regaled the ears 
of the guests with strains of exquisite melody. A 
laudatory ode was sung, whereof the subject was the 
glory of Prince Gruffenhausen’s forefathers; showing 
how Graf Adolph won fame and honor in the Holy 
Land ; how Graf Rupert acquired renown from his 
matchless skill of fence ; how Reinholdt (Rupert’s 
son) was rewarded with increased territory and addi- 
tional rank, for the valor he exhibited in certain wars 
of the empire ; how Prince Ernest kept a hall of un- 
precedented hospitality, and distinguished himself by 
his passion for the chase. All these several person- 
ages ^seemed, if the bard were credible authority, to 
have been wholly irresistible among the fair sex ; and 
the concluding stanzas ascribed to the present Lord of 
Schloss-Doukerstein, the united merits of his princely 
ancestors, and especially that wherein they all excell- 
ed, — the enviable gift of leading captive the affections 
of the female heart. 

The last verse of the ode, which was sung in full 
chorus, the musicians all standing, we have faintly en- 
deavored to imitate in the following translation : — 


“There were murmurs of love o’er the waters wide, 
From a far distant isle he hath borne his bride ; 

The fresh ocean gale, 

Filled their light bark’s sail, 

O’er wave and through forest sped Doukerstein’s lord, 
Nor halted his fleet courser’s feet on the sward, 

Till at Doukerstein’s gate rang his bugle-call, 


172 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


S 


And lovely, — all blushing in Love’s sweet thrall, 

His bride he enthron’d in his ancient hall. 

“But hark ! 

In the lady’s bower on high, 

Is heard an infant’s wailing cry. 

The princely sire is at his side, 

In his breast there is joy, in his eye there is pride. 

“Krunks-Doukerslein ! ho ! exalt thine horn ; 

An heir to thy ancient line is born, 

The princely infant Capricorn 1” 

“ Pofe !” said his serene highness, turning to a no- 
ble Graf who sat at his left hand (the ex-widow was 
seated on his right) ; 44 those musicians, or the poet, 
must know little about the matter ! 4 There were 

murmurs of love /’ Love ! By my honest word? 
Von Grumppenberg. Love had no more to say to it 
than you had ! It was not Love — it was Schiksal!” 

“But Schiksal and Love may co-operate,” answer- 
ed the Graf Von Grumppenberg. 

44 Pofe ! Grumppenberg, but if I tell you that they 
did not ?” 

44 You will find it impossible to persuade me that 
such was the case,” replied Grumppenberg, politely 
consulting the Princess Gruffenhausen’s natural amour 
propre. 

“‘The fresh ocean gale 

Filled their light bark’s sail.’ 

Those are pretty lines,” continued the Graf, to divert 
the conversation from its unpleasant approach to per- 
sonality. 

44 They are all trash and falsehood,” answered his 
highness ; 44 we had no gale at all, and it was not a 
sailing vessel but a steam packet, and away we went, 
racket, racket, paddle, paddle! Pofe ! I was sick — 
very sick, 4 There were murmurs of Love!' Ach ! I 
wish Cupid was aboard a steamer, and I think he 
would only murmur for the bason or the brandy-flask. 

I drank two bottles of brantewein ; — pofe ! mine Wife 
of Destiny was abominably sick, too, but she drank 
no brantewein. Did you?” (turning to the prin- 
cess.) 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


173 


“ No, your highness,” she replied ; “ I drank con- 
densed solution of magnesia.” 

“ I will tell those foolish musicians not to add that 
new stanza to the ‘ Song of Doukerstein’ any more/ 5 
resumed the prince : “ that verse about the courser’s 
feet is all a huge falsehood, too; just as if I rode a- 
horseback, with mine wife on a pillion ; whereas we 
traveled in my vrowtschk all the way from the sea to 
my schloss, and I drove it myself, although my foolish 
Wife of Destiny implored me to sit in it with her, 
‘ Ach 1’ said 1, ‘ but if you want my company, you 
may sit beside me on the box.’ Pofe ! I suppose she 
thought because I married her, that I was always to 
be pinned to her side. Pofe !” and his highness gave 
energy to the exclamation by swallowing an enormous 
mouthful of sauerkraut. “ Women expect a great 
deal, and must be sometimes disappointed.” 

“ Yqur refusal was cruel,” said Von Grumppenberg ; 
“you should have recollected that the princess’s re-, 
quest was prompted by the anxious ardor of affection. ” 

“Pofe! Grumppenberg, you do not understand 
women ; l do.” 

At this moment the musicians, who had taken a 
short respite, poured forth another gush of harmony 
from their lofty gallery. Gruffenhausen applied him- 
self with vigor to his venison ; and the princess, whose 
ever watchful and observant eye derived entertainment 
from all surrounding objects, amused herself with the 
figures and grimaces of the musicians, who were now 
all intent on the production of effect. There was the 
usual orchestral variety of face, figure, and attitude; 
old wizened men, with puckered faces and oily brown 
wigs, rasping away with prodigious energy of elbow; 
others, doomed to inflate the capacious intestines of 
some growling bassoon, puffed and blew, as if their 
lives depended on the effort ; others, again, looking 
soft and sentimental, gently breathed forlh the tender 
melody of flutes ; a bald-headed man with a squint, 
had evidently centered all the energies of his exist- 
ence in the dexterous performance on his clarionet ; a 
15 * 


174 THE HUSBAND-IIUNTE&. 

gaunt-looking genius, with disheveled hair, made un- 
paralleled contortions in playing the French horn ; and 
the leader of the orchestra, with a stern look of diabo- 
lical ferocity at all the performers, marked time by 
jerking his head and shaking a wand, which he did 
with an air that manifestly showed that he deemed it 
the most important duty in the universe. But with 
all the grinning, squinting, rasping, jerking, and grim- 
acing, the performers undoubtedly produced delicious 
music. Some of Mozart’s most charming airs were 
played, and also some of Leopold Kozeluch’s unrival- 
ed streams of rich and languid harmony. The prin- 
cess was sorry when dinner was over; for then his 
highness’s conversation was usually substituted for the 
heavenly strains that had delighted her during the 
banquet. 

“ Grumppenberg, have you made up your mind as 
to that weighty and -important question I proposed to 
you last week ?” 

The weighty and important question was, whether 
the prevalence of a belief in fatalism among an army, 
would make them better or worse soldiers on the day 
of battle. 

“Decidedly worse, I think,” replied the Graf. 

“ And I say decidedly better,” said the prince. 
“ Will not the fatalist soldier say, ‘ Every bullet has 
its billet — fight, or not fight, my Schiksal has decreed 
my lot ; I may just as well fight then, for any good 
that I could get by flinching.’ ” 

“ But,” replied Grumppenberg, “ is not the fatalist 
soldier just as likely to say, ‘ Fight, or not fight, das 
Schiksal has decreed my lot ; therefore I may spare 
myself the trouble of fighting, and take matters quiet- 
ly ?’ And if he glances at the fortunes of the day, 
may he not also argue thus, — c Whether I fight or no, 
das Schiksal has pre-ordained the result of the bat- 
tle ; therefore I may just as well keep quiet, for any 
thing 1 could do to alter destiny.’ ” 

At this moment, an attendant informed the princess, 
that the nurse wished to speak to her; she started up 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


175 


to comply, as her motherly instinct told her that Cap- 
ricorn wanted a maternal visit. JHer step was quick- 
ened, as the cry of the child caught her ear from a 
neighboring corridor. 

“ Pofe ! Wife of Destiny!” exclaimed his serene 
highness, laying a detaining grasp upon the princess, 

“ do not leave this delicate and knotty argument.” 

“ Capricorn wants me,” pleadingly whispered the 
mother. 

<c Pofe ! let Capricorn wait ! It will teach the 
young spark patience to submit to Schiksal ; a lesson 
that cannot be impressed too early. Sit down, mine 
j Wife of Destiny.” 

But the princess would not sit down ; and extricat- 
ing herself with dexterity and grace, she flew to sup- 
ply the wants of the poor infant. 

“ Ach !” cried the prince, when she was gone, “ that 
woman will spoil the child with over indulgence — 
baf ! women always do — they never will have sense.” 

“ When does your highness purpose going to Vien- 
na ?” asked Von Grurnppenberg. 

“ In a week, I dare say ray Schiksal may direct me 
there.” 

“ Do you think the E nperor will favor your suit?” 

“ I know not, my excellent friend, but a very little 
time will tell.” 

While the prince discussed his prospects with his 
friend, his “ Wife of Destiny” was seated by a warm 
fire in the nursery, with Capricorn in her lap, and some 
letters she had recently received from Ireland, on the 
table at her side. 

“ And now,” thought she, “ have all my successful 
manoeuvres been productive of happiness? Whether 
am I happier now, or when I was the lively widow 
Mersey? Undoubtedly you, sweet one !” she added, 
caressing her babe, are a source of pride and pleasure 
to your mother ; but you would have probably been 
more so, had I furnished you with a less eccentric and 
more rational father. I am unhappy, in the midst of 
all this cumbrous, barbarous splendor. Why did I 


176 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


suffer my aspirings after wealth and rank to lead me 
away from love ? — Oh, Henry O’Sullivan ! a thousand 
thousand times has my truant heart acknowledged to 
itself, that*on thee the full, puregushings of its best af- 
fections might have been poured forth — that after three 
matrimonial engagements entered on from motives of 
interest, I might have formed one for love. Rut no ! 
I must not suffer even a momentary thought to glance 
towards thee. I am now the sworn wife of another; 
and although Cupid had little concern with our union, 
yet that very circumstance should only make me the 
more wary. I hoaxed his highness into marrying me, 
and the least I may do, is to deal with him, even in 
my inmost thoughts, with truth and honor. Hush, 
Capricorn — hush, my wailing babe — dost thou cry to 
chide thy mother V 9 

And soothing the infant with her fond caresses, she 
soon hushed him to sleep, and applied herself to the 
perusal of her letters. 


CHAPTER XXIL 


Pour la chasse ordonnee il faut preparer tout, 

Hola, ho ! Vlte, vite debout ! 

Quoted in WAVEsiEr. 

Prince Gruffenhausen intended to proceed to Vi- 
enna, as he had intimated to Von Grumppenberg, in 
about a week ; at which period the festive hospitalities 
of the Schloss Doukerstein would necessarily cease> 
until his highness’s return. As the prince was unable 
to conjecture the probable time that his Schiksal would 
detain him in the capital, and as the Graf was. desir- 
ous, before his departure, to witness a Doukerstein 
bear-hunt, it was fixed that in a day or two Von 
Grumppenberg’s wish should be gratified. 

The morning of the chase commenced with a solid 


THE husband-hunter. 


177 

repast in the noble hail we described in the last chap- 
ter. The guests did their duty to the viands, and they 
quaffed the rich wines which their host, “ on hospita- 
ble cares intent,”- recommended to their connoisseur- 
ship. 

“ Drink! drink! drink deep!” quoth the prince. 
“ Mine excellent guests, enjoy life while your Schiksa! 
permits you. Many and many a fine long summer’s 
day will you lie beneath the rank grass at the side of 
an old church-yard wall, or cooped up in a noisome 
vault, where you will not get champagne or burgun- 
dy — mine heavens, no! nor even humble Lubeck 
beer !” (The guests all looked at each other and 
shook their heads, in token of their approbation of his 
highness’s wise and prudent forethought.) “Many a 
fine frosty winter’s morn, will the hunter’s bugle ring 
through the leafless woods, and you will not hear it ! 
No — upon mine honest word — clods ! senseless clods, 
stark and dead shall you be all ! the dogs will bay, 
and the deer may bound over your breasts, and you 
shall not be one whit the wiser. It is your Schiksal. 
Drink, then, from the foaming cup, while yet you can 
enjoy it ; and then to horse — to horse !” 

Whereupon, following his highness’s example, the 
assembled guests quaffed copious draughts, and then 
followed their host to the court, where steeds, impa- 
tient of delay, pranced and stamped on the vaulted 
pavements. 

Gruffenhausen’s habit-dechasse was a suit of Lin- 
coln green, fitting tight to his person. His jacket was 
richly furred in front; and his head-gear consisted of 
a tight round hairy cap, whose fleecy covering descend- 
ed tq his brow's, and mingled with the hair in which 
his face was nearly enveloped. Round his waist was 
a belt, whence a knife, a horn, and a whistle hung. 
Mounted on his gigantic horse, he pricked him sharp- 
ly with the spur ; on which the animal loudly neigh- 
ed, sprang upon his haunches, and then darted at full 
gallop over the drawbridge, followed by the jocund 
train. As they passed beneath the castle, the princess 


178 TriE HUSBAND-IiUNTEH. 

waved her handkerchief at the sire of the little Capri** 
corn. His highness did not vouchsafe to notice this 
token of his Wife of Destiny, and pursued his rapid 
way to the summit of a rising ground which the hunts- 
men pointed out as the most advantageous position for 
a halt. Here, then, the hunting party descended from 
their horses, which were put up in the stables apper- 
taining to a Jagdhaus in the forest ; as, from the 
broken nature of the ground, and the tangled and in- 
tricate underwood, it was necessary that the sports of 
the day should be enjoyed on foot. This Jagdhaus 
was about four miles from the castle of Krunks-Douker- 
stein, and had been erected by prince Gruffenhausen’s 
grandfather for occasions like the present. It was 
situated at the opening of a deep and lonely glade, 
which skirted the foot of one of the highest moun- 
tains of the Black Forest. 

The grand battue consisted of about eight hundred 
men, who, since an early hour in the morning, had 
formed a cordon round a district in which the recent 
tracks of bears led the hunters to conclude that some 
of the objects of their chase were harbored in their 
thicket-lairs. The prince and his guests provided 
themselves with the guns that had been left at the 
Jagdhaus, for that purpose, on the preceding evening ; 
and then took their station on the bank of a stream 
that rushed from the hills to swell the waters of the 
Rhine. 

“ Erlshof,” said Grumppenberg, to a young and 
pensive hunter, “ it is seldom, I believe, that one sees 
you in the chase.” 

“ Ah, Graf!” said Erlshof, “ I shall make no boast ; 
but ere the evening closes, you will, perhaps, be better 
able to judge of my prowess in the field.” 

“ Curse those lazy bears !” growled Gruffenhausen ; 
“ one would think they did not know we were waiting 
to hunt them.” 

“ One would rather think they did know it,” an- 
swered Grumppenberg ; “and, therefore, they wisely 
keep close in their lairs,” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


179 


As he spoke, a loud shout rang through the forest, 
and in another instant a monstrous bear appeared, ca- 
reering at full speed across the open glade we have 
already mentioned. None of the attendants, although 
armed, had discharged their pieces at him, as the 
honor of dispatching the enormous fugitive was to be 
left to the prince, or to some of his visitors ; unless, 
indeed, the animal should turn upon his pursuers — in 
which case Prince Gruffenhausen (claiming no small 
credit for the gracious concession,) permitted the per- 
son attacked to defend himself as he best might. 
Two large and noble dogs bounded after the bear, 
and worried him at opposite sides. He contrived, 
notwithstanding the rapidity of his flight, to rid him- 
self of the annoyance, by striking one of his tormen- 
tors, en passant , a blow that effectually stunned him ; 
at the same moment catching the other in his teeth 
by the nape of the neck, and adroitly flinging him 
over his back. He then dashed in among the thick 
forest brake, the branches of the underwood crash- 
ing beneath his weight as he advanced. 

“ Thirty yards nearer,” said Grumppenberg, “ and 
the fellow had been within range of my rifle.” 

Gruffenhausen and his party, with a few picked 
attendants, were now in full pursuit of the bear, and 
had nearly reached the entrance of the thicket into 
which he had dived. The cordon still kept their 
places in the outer ring, in order to drive back the 
bear, should he try to escape beyond the circle they had 
formed. Their good offices, in this respect, were 
speedily required ; for the animal, after skirting 
through the thicket, made a desperate rush to escape 
through a guarded defile ; whereupon the guardians 
of the pass saluted him with a brisk discharge of fire 
arms, that did not, indeed, take mortal effect upon 
his tough, strong hide ; but which caused him to 
head about, and seek safety by ascending a steep 
rocky path within the cordon. This path was barely 
wide enough to permit two men to pass each other. 
It traversed the face of a nearly perpendicular rock, 


180 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


and was flanked on the right by an overhanging wall 
of granite ; on the left by a thick scrub of brushwood, 
that clothed the deep and dizzy precipice beneath. 

Erlshof, warmed with the ardor of the chase, and 
anxious to show Von Grumppenberg that his skill as 
a hunter merited his praise, had ascended to the sum- 
mit of the rock by a sort of natural staircase on its op- 
posite side, and stood upon its topmost verge with his 
gun ready pointed, ere the bear had reached the up- 
per extremity of the dangerous path we have describ- 
ed. 

Erlshof had all the advantage to himself, of observ- 
ing Bruin’s movements; he had diverged from his 
companions to an open and commanding spot ; and 
while they pursued Bruin’s track in the thicket, he 
had witnessed the turn of the hunted animal, and 
sprang up the rock to give him a becoming reception. 
The entire of this movement took place in scarcely 
more time than we have taken to describe it ; but 
while Erlshof awaits the approach of the bear, with 
his piece ready levelled, we must transport the reader 
to the bottom of the dell beneath him, where a some- 
what misadventurous rencontre at that moment took 
place. 

Prince Gruffenhausen, unable, from his growing 
obesity, to keep up with Von Grumppenberg and the 
other members of his party, and desirous, too, to seek 
out some source of distinction on the score of his per- 
sonal prowess, had quietly given his comrades the slip, 
and was stealthily proceeding through the bushes, 
when, just as he reached the foot of the eminence on 
w'hich Erlshof had taken his position, his eye was ar- 
rested by a very suspicious looking mass of hairiness , 
that occupied a cozy aperture, scooped between the 
roots of two large pinetrees. With more courage than 
prudence, he advanced, with levelled firelock, to the 
mouth of the den, from which an old she-bear pro- 
truded her snout, disturbed at the rustle of Gruffen- 
hausen’s footsteps. 

The prince now stood facing the bear, the muzzle 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


181 


of his rifle within eighteen inches of her snout ; he 
pulled the trigger ; but, nlas ! the piece missed fire! 
upon which the gentle tenant of the den, enraged at 
his intrusion, sprang forth upon her hinder legs, and 
suddenly seizing the rifle in her paws, wrenched it out 
of its unlucky owner’s hands* Gruffenhausen lost not 
a moment in drawing his couteau-de-chasse, with 
which he aimed a stalwart stroke at the heart of his 
formidable foe. He wounded her*smartly ; but, drop- 
ping the rifle, she immediately came to close quarters 
with his highness, and bit him severely on the arms, 
indenting, at the same time, his sides pretty deeply 
with her claws. While the conflict raged, two cubs, 
about the size of large terrier dogs, crept out of the 
den, and looked on at the strife with philosophical 
placidity. The prince had worked manfully and well 
with his hunting-knife ; but lie now grew faint from 
fear, exertion, and the loss of blood ; his foe struck her 
teeth into his shoulder, which gave him such excru- 
ciating pain, that he sank, disabled, on the ground. It 
was just at this critical moment that Erlshof discharg- 
ed his rifle at the Ae-bear, which fell, on receiving the 
well-aimed bullet in his brain, from a height of not 
less than two hundred feet, right down on our unfor- 
tunate friend, Gruffenhausen. The she-bear received 
this very unexpected descent of her husband with a 
matrimonial growl ; but she quickly took to flight with 
one of her cubs in her mouth, and pursued by the 
other, as the halloos of Erlshof, who was swiftly de- 
scending the precipitous rock, warned her to decamp 
with all possible speed. Great was the consternation 
and astonishment of Erlshof, and two or three attend- 
ants, whom the report of his gun, and his shouting, 
quickly drew' to the spot, when they saw the mangled 
body of poor Gruffenhausen lying on the ground, his 
lower limbs covered with the carcase of the dead bear. 

u May heaven forgive me !” exclaimed Erlshof, hor- 
ror-struck, “ the bear I shot has killed him !” 

“ No, mein friend,” poor Gruffenhausen made an 
effort to articulate, “ it was not your bear — it was his 
VOL. n. 16 


182 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


wife — his Wife of Destiny, I do suppose she was.— 
0,1 am in great torture — very great indeed !” 

Erlshof and the men immediately removed the de- 
funct bear from his position on Gruffenhausen’s legs ; 
no easy task, as the beast was large and heavy. Sev- 
eral hunters — Grumppenberg among the rest — now 
crowded to the spot, through the thicket, and all par- 
ticipated in the feeling of horror and commiseration. 

“Call in the corSon !” said Grumppenberg, “ this 
sad event has put an end to the day’s chase.” 

“ Do not call in the cordon,” faintly groaned his 
highness ; “ but kill that schelm beast that has wound- 
ed me — mortally, I am sure.” 

“ Oh, rny dear prince !” — expostulated Grumppen- 
berg. 

“ Do as I tell you, if you would not drive me mad,’’ 
replied the sufferer, gnashing his teeth ; “ I shall not 
die in peace, unless I see her hide displayed before 
me.” 

Grumppenberg, who well knew his friend’s pecu- 
liarities of temper, immediately withdrew, to carry his 
commands into effect. 

“ Now, Erlshof,” moaned Gruffenhausen, c ‘ have me 
carried to the Jagdhaus, immediately. Oh, mine hea- 
vens ! to think that bears should be my Schiksal after 
all ! and with all my studies of the books of Kofer, 
and Klingerstein, and Shirtsinger, and Krous, that I 
never could discover it 1 Nor with all the astrology 
of Klauberstock — but,” he muttered to himself — “ I ’ll 
pay him yet for it — pofe ! he is a quack — an arrant 
impostor — pofe !” 

While his mutilated highness thus continued to 
brood upon his grievances, Erlshof and his attendants 
were skinning the bear, as quickly as might be. As 
soon as this operation was completed, they dexterous- 
ly made a palanquin of the skin, upon which they 
conveyed the prince to the Jagdhaus in the forest, 
where he was compelled to remain ; as, from the num- 
ber and severity of his wounds, Doctor Uhrdahl, his 
physician, who opportunely came from the castle, con- 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


183 


sidered any further motion, even on the easy convey- 
ance of a bearskin palanquin, as being in the highest 
degree dangerous. 

“ Oh !” cried the luckless sufferer, “ how dark are 
the decrees of Schiksal ! to think that the head of 
the ancient line of Doukersiein should be hampered 
to death between a dead bear and a living one — pofe ! 
But Capricorn lives to inherit my honors. Mein hei- 
ligkeit ! it was a fortunate schiksal that I married that 
merry Irish widow just in time to leave an heir. Mine 
other wife was twice as large and twice as fat — but, 
ach ! she was a barren, barren stock ! pofe — I will 
leave much riches to merry my widow. She must be 
kind to Capricorn.” 

And the Prince, who had swallowed a powerful 
narcotic draught, produced from Doctor Uhrdahl’s 
pocket, began to feel its influence, and dropped, in- 
sensibly, into a heavy slumber. 




CHAPTER XXIII. 

Oh, Woman ! in our hours of ease, 

Uncertain, coy, and hard to please ! 

Whe« pain and sorrow wring the brow 
A ministering angel thou ! 

Sir Walter Scott. 

The princess flew to the forest Jagdhaus, where lay 
her suffering lord, on the first intimation of his mis- 
fortune. She attended him with the utmost solici- 
tude ; for we beg to assure the reader, that although 
the ex-Mersey was a trading speculator in the matri- 
monial market, yet the sight of human suffering inva- 
riably called forth the softer, better portion of her na- 
ture into active operation. 

While his highness was sunk in the deep, though 
artificial slumber produced by Uhrdahl’s draught, that 
practitioner examined and dressed his wounds, shook 


184 


THE HUSBAND-IIUNTKIl. 


his head, and pronounced that mortification, and con- 
sequent death, were inevitable. 

“-How long may his highness survive ?” demanded 
Erlshof. 

“ Probably five or six days,” replied Uhrdahl ; “ not 
more, I should imagine ; he has sustained tremen- 
dous laceration, and two compound fractures.” 

On hearing the decree of Doctor Uhrdahl, the 
Princess GrufTenhausen wept. 

About ten next morning, the patient awoke to a 
sense of his suffering condition, confused at first, and 
clouded, but gradually acquiring distinctness and con- 
sistency. 

“ Where is my Wife of Destiny?” he inquired. 

“ At your side, love,” replied her highness, bending 
over his pillow. 

“ I beseech your highness not to speak,” said the 
physician, “ the exertion may cost you your life.” 

“ I cannot be silent,” answered GrufTenhausen. 
“ What think you of my wounds, Uhrdahl?” 

“Very dangerous,” replied the physician; “they 
demand the utmost quiet.” 

“Pofe! — tell me truly, Uhrdahl, are they mortal ?” 

“ If your highness does not observe quiet, I fear they 
will certainly become so.” 

“Baf ! how hard it is to get an answer from these 
doctor-fellows! I asked you were the^mortal nowl” 

Uhrdahl hesitated. 

“Come,” said the prince, “ I know how to get an 
answer from you. — Erlshof, you are one of my execu- 
tors. I shall dictate this day a codex to my will, leav- 
ing five hundred golden to this doctor, on condition 
that he now, in your presence, shall tell me the truth, 
which the result of the next few days will sufficiently 
test. If his answer be deceptive, he shall not get a 
stiver.” 

Erlshof intimated acquiescence. 

“ Uhrdahl,” said the prince, sternly, “ are my wounds 
mortal ?” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


185 


Tlius cogently stimulated, the physician timidly re- 
plied, 

“ They are.” 

“May Satan physic you, you pedling pill-monger !” 
growled the prince; “ you know that such a man as I 
am, must needs have important directions to give, and 
yet you would seal up my lips, well knowing that my 
days on earth are brief.” 

“ I meant, an please your highness ” 

“Out, schelm hound !” said Gruffenhausen. Uhr- 
dahl was silenced. 

“ Erlshof, where is Grumppenberg ?” 

“ He awaits your waking in the ante-room.” 

“ Call him in.” 

Erlshof accordingly summoned Von Grumppenberg. 

“ Graf,” inquired the prince, “ is the she-bear kill- 
ed ?” 

“ She is,” replied the Graf. 

“ Show me her skin.” 

The skin was accordingly paraded before Gruffen- 
hausen, who evinced much satisfaction at not dying 
unavenged. 

“ How does your highness feel l” inquired the Graf 
in a tone of sympathy. 

“ Pofe ! as a man feels, who knows that his Schih- 
sal has decreed his death within a week, and who has 
much to do, and is something pressed for time to do 
it in. I thank you, most excellent Graf, for slaughter* 
ing that bear. The erudite Kofer is inclined to be- 
lieve that beasts have souls, and that we may meet 
them in the invisible world. Baf! it may be foolish- 
ness, for aught I know — but this I know, that should 
it be my Schiksal to meet that huge beast in any other 
life, I would not like that she should be able to cast it 
in my teeth that she killed me with impunity — pofe ! 
But you , my excellent friend, have saved me that mor- 
tification, and I thank you. We are not certain of 
these things — I speak it all upon hypothesis — pofe! a 
few days will tell me all, however. Erlshof, and 
Grumppenberg, quit the room, and send me hither my 


186 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


chamberlain. Slay, Wife of Destiny — what I would 
say to Carl Kroiidersbad, you may hear, as it partly 
concerns you.” 

Accordingly Erlshof, Grumppenberg, and Uhrdahl 
left the room, and the chamberlain entered it. 

“Carl,” said his master, “ shut the door.” 

Carl obeyed, and approached the bed blubbering, for 
he had a warm and sincere regard for his master; the 
sort of feudal love that the vassals of the Scotch and 
Irish chieftains were wont to entertain for their respec- 
tive lords. 

“Carl — my days are ended by a destiny of bears — 
mein heiligkeit 1 I insisted to that scoundrel Klauber- 
stock, that Ursa Major frowned upon my horoscope ; 
but he said that Ursa Major was my friend, and that 
Ursa Minor frowned impotently — mein himmel ! I'll 
provide for him. — An astrologer truly ! an arrant con- 
juring knave 1” 

Carl murmured an indignant echo at the expense of 
Klauberstock. 

“Carl, I have summoned you, to give you my direc- 
tions for my funeral. You know, my trusty chamber- 
lain, that, for centuries past, the obsequies of the 
Heads of my Serene and Mighty House, have been 
invariably committed to the care of your predecessors 
in your hereditary office.” 

Carl’s tears flowed fast, and he wept aloud. “ Woe, 
woe am I l” blubbered he, “that it should fall to my 
lot to superintend the obsequies of your highness. 
But perhaps a better fate awaits us — your highness 
may recover.” 

“ No — hope it not — I have got the truth out of that 
doctor-hound. My wounds are mortal. Carl — at- 
tend — I shall of course be interred by torch light. 
My body must be conveyed incognito from this place 
to the castle; for it would be highly indecorous, and 
against all precedent, that the grand funeral proces- 
sion of the Head of my most High and Princely House, 
should set out from a Jagdhaus — bah I — you hear me, 
Carl i” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


1ST 


“ I do, your highness, to my sorrow.” 

“ 1 must be laid in state in the great hall of the 
Schloss. Suspend a shield with the arms of my 
house above my head, and on either side of it two 
smaller shields, with the cognizances of my cousin 
Grumppenberg, and my maternal ancestors ofTeufel- 
stein, Ehrenbhrunn, and Potzbaden. You hear me, 
Carl 

“ Woe, woe is me ! I do, too well, your highness.** 

“ Let the hall be hung, not with black, but crimson 
cloth, in token of the sanguinary nature of my most 
unhappy death. Let the windows be closely darken- 
ed ; and let twenty men with large waxen torches 
stand in a horse-shoe line behind my body. You will 
bear all this in mind, trusty Carl ?” 

(C Doubt it not, my dear, dear master.” 

“ Let the chief officers of the household range- them- 
selves in double file at the left side of my bier, each 
man clothed in a black cloak, and keeping his eyes 
on the ground, and carrying in his right hand his 
wand of office, muffled in crimson crape. You will 
remember this, Carl?” 

“ Alas, I shall remember it but too well, your high- 
ness.” 

“ Now, Wife of Destiny, you will necessarily occu- 
py a prominent position in the ceremonial. You shall 
sit in the great embroidered velvet chair of state, at 
the right hand of my lifeless body, with your coronet 
upon your head, and a sable robe cast round your 
shoulders ; and say at least twice, 4 Alas ! alas ! my 
noble prince is gone! Three other husbands have i 
had, but he was as greatly their superior in wisdom, 
philosophy, and worth, as he was in rank V You 
will attend to this, mine Wife of Destiny V 9 

“ 1 shall, most undoubtedly ,” sobbed t lie princess. 

“ It is not without precedent,” resumed his high- 
ness ; “ my great-great -grand mot her sat in like man- 
ner, lamenting, by the bier of her husband, Count 
Reinhoidt ; you know the event is represented in the 
large picture by Hans Grappe in the western saloon. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


188 

Now, as (o my funeral procession ; you of course, 
trusty Carl, will rule this by the £ Book of the Ob- 
sequies of Krunks-Doukerstein,’ in your custody, 
which details the etiquette of my most mighty house 
on such occasions. But, hark ye ! there is among my 
guests in the castle, the Count Pursberg — Carl, 1 hate 
him ! Against my grain, I had to show him hospital- 
ity ; for he might have been of use in my suit to 
the Emperor. But he and his followers put a slight 
upon me at Vienna seven years ago, which I never 
can forgive. Contrive that the rascal Klauberstock is 
marshalled among Pursberg’s party in the procession, 
and just as they are passing over the drawbridge, get 
some trusty hand to slip the bolts and souse the 
scoundrels in the water. The inner leaf of the bridge 
has a falling fold, you know — mein himmel ! what a 
souse they 'll get !” 

“ It shall be done, your highness.’’ 

“ Ach ! but it will be a most rare sight ! Pofe ! 
I wish I could see Pursberg and Klauberstock floun- 
dering in the moat ! You will be looking at them. 
Wife of Destiny, and 1 shall be — dead 1 cold and 
dead !’’ His highness paused thoughtfully, and sigh- 
ed. “ I begin to find great difficulty in speaking,” 
he resumed. “ When my body is lowered into the 
vault, good Carl, the Herald shall proclaim with sound 
of trumpet, my names, titles, dignities, and territories; 
adding the most melancholy Schiksal of the manner 
of my death/’ 

“That, an please your highness,” said the cham- 
berlain, “ is all strictly prescribed in the 1 Book of 
Obsequies and as speaking gives your highness 
pain, I w ould humbly recommend you to rest quiet, 
now% and trust the whole to me.” 

“ Would not you like to be visited by a clergyman, 
love ?” asked the princess. 

“ Pofe ! — yes — let him come to-night — he may 
talk while I ’m asleep — my ancestors have always 
been talked to by a clergyman when dying — the 
* Book of Obsequies’ lays down his whole duty at 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


189 


the funeral; he is to mount the pulpit, with my arms 
emblazoned on his gown, and to preach about my 
virtues, and the loss the community sustain in my 
death — and — and — Oh ! Wife — I am suffering agony 
— Carl, assist me to turn ! — the parson — is to — walk 
in the — procession — next the — herald — he will find — 
the proper heads of his discourse — all laid down in the 
* Book of Obsequies . 7 — Pofe !” 

Poor Gruffenhausen had pronounced the last few 
words with excessive difficulty, and, in conclusion, 
vented an agonized groan. 

The princess, to her credit be it spoken, was desir- 
ous that her eccentric mate should enjoy somewhat 
more of the benefits of clerical assistance, than could 
be derived from the formal parade of a surpliced at- 
tendant, as laid down in the “Book of Obsequies.” 
Accordingly she despatched a courier to summon to 
his dying highness the Reverend Doctor Kleiber ; a 
divine, whose amenity of manner, diametrically op- 
posite to puritanical moroseness, was ever made the 
channel of conveying to the minds of his penitents 
the saving truths of Christianity. The reverend gen- 
tlemen arrived ere tire prince slept; the princess in- 
troduced him into the sick chamber, and left him 
alone with her spouse. 

We deeply lament that it is not in our power to re- 
cord the persuasive appeal addressed by this excellent 
divine to Gruffenhausen ; but it is no trifling proof of 
its efficacy, that immediately upon Dr. Kleiber’s de- 
parture, Gruffenhausen summoned his chamberlain, 
and addressed him as follows, — 

“Carl — you remember all I said about that most 
stately and important ceremonial of my obsequies?” 

“ I do, your highness.” 

“ Then, Carl, observe most minutely every tittle of 
my orders — except the sousing of Pursberg and his 
people in the moat.” 

“Shall Klauberstoek be soused, your highness?” 

“ No, no, Carl — no — let him pass the draw-bridge 
like the rest. I must forgive my enemies, Carl — and 


190 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


I do forgive them all, except that most savage and 
abominable beast of a she-bear. I do not forgive her 
— but she is dead — pofe ! that ’s a comfort.” 

The next care of Gruffenhausen was to dictate his 
will ; it was brief. The whole bulk of his estates de- 
volved on Capricorn, to whom his highness named 
Leschen, Grumppenberg, the Princess, and Erlshof, 
trustees and guardians during his minority. To the 
Princess he bequeathed his vrowtchsk, an ample join- 
ture, and a large supply of antiquated but valuable 
bijouterie. Legacies were left to a few friends (in- 
cluding the conditional bequest to Doctor Uhrdahl ;) 
and a moderate sum was bequeathed to the excellent 
Kleiber, the testator remarking, that he had formerly 
believed that much of what clergymen said about ano- 
ther world, was all huge foolishness : — 

“ But — mein heiligkeit ! the devil couldn’t help be- 
lieving Kleiber, there was so much of the genuine, un- 
affected Christian, in his manner, without one particle 
of humbug. He has saved Pursberg and Klauberstock 
a ducking,” muttered Gruffenhausen, in conclusion, 
“ for which they ought to thank him, if they knew it 
— pofe !” 

Ere the week had closed, the prediction of Uhrdahl 
was verified — the Prince had breathed his last. Could 
his lifeless corpse have beheld the gorgeous ceremoni- 
al of his obsequies, he must have certainly acknow- 
ledged the punctual fidelity of Carl and the widowed 
princess. Costly crimson hangings were suspended 
in the hall — torches blazed — mourners in sable robes 
were ranged around the bier — solemn music rang 
from the vaulted galleries — heraldic blazonry proclaim- 
ed his proud descent-— the voice of heralds told his 
titles, orders, and possessions — musketry pealed — 
trumpets brayed — the funeral discourse, extracted 
from the Book of Obsequies, was duly delivered by 
an obliging divine — the sumptuous coffin was laid 
within its damp and dusky vault, surrounded by a no- 
ble array of barons, counts, and princes — the train dis- 
persed — the stanchelled iron door was locked — and 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


191 


the Lord of Krunks-Doukerstein was left to darkness, 
dust, and silence. 

“ Now that’s what I call going out of the world en 
prince” said Carl to one of his confrerers. It was 
well done — handsomely done — no peddling about it 
— our dear master has nothing to complain of. Three 
thousand ells of cloth — four hundred and seventy-six 
torches — a sermon of an hour and twenty minutes long 
— guns, prayers, banners, and trumpets. Ah, well-a- 
day ! if ever man had a truly Christian funeral, his 
highness had !” 




CHAPTER XXIV. 

” Now, -by my fay th quoth she, “ my state 
Is sad, and lorn, and desolate ; 

I ’ll match me with another mate.” 

Old Ballad. 

When Gruffenhausen was finally deposited along 
with his serene and princely ancestors, the princess-do- 
wager began to reflect upon her future prospects. 

“ I am rich,” thought her highness ; “ I am young — 
thirty-three is certainly not old — 1 am not passee yet — 
I am quite unshackled as to any future marriage, his 
defunct hairiness imposed no obligations of perpetual 
dowagerhood. ShailT then confer felicity once more 
on some deserving person ? Count Ebersdorf looked 
tender, yesterday — his glance was unequivocally symp- 
tomatic of a meditated onslaught — but I really am tir- 
ed of voluminous mustachios — and I strongly suspect 
that Ebersdorf ’s whiskers, hair, and eyebrows, are dy- 
ed — he is forty-six — mon prince was fifty — one mid- 
dle aged spouse me suffit . 

<£ Truant, truant fancies, whither do ye wander? I 
must look to the happiness of my loved boy, Adolph — 
he shall never be called Capricorn , now that His Se- 


192 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


rene Absurdity is dead. Adolph wants the guardian 
care of an attentive and highly principled step-father. 
Ebersdorf would only marry me to plunder the minor, in 
order to supply the claims of the gaming-table. I 
cannot possibly dream of any further aggrandizement 
by matrimony. Love, long-suppressed love, disinter- 
ested and pure, shall henceforth be ascendant in my 
bosom. Yes, my Adolph 1” continued her highness, 
caressing the ci-devant Capricorn ; “ I shall give you 
a step-father who will be all that a parent ought to be, 
and more than your sire would have been to you, O, 
Henry O’Sullivan ! little have you dreamt that I 
have kept an eye on all your motions — that 1 have had 
constant intelligence of your progress in India, your re- 
turn to Ireland, and the silly perfidy of your Lucinda. 
Well — 1 shall be the gainer — I have made up my 
mind — with me you may have wealth, of which, in 
your wildest visions, you have dreamt not — with me 
you can share the advantage of a close connexion with 
a youth of Adolph’s rank and future influence — with 
me you may enjoy the fond fidelity of impassioned 
and devoted love. I have loo long sacrificed my per- 
sonal feelings to ambition ; I shall never do so more !” 

# * # * # 

We w 7 ave our wand. 

About four months from the period when the widow 
thus soliloquized, two persons sauntered along the 
Knockanea road, near the entrance to the well-known 
defile of Glen Minnis. The softness of a still spring 
evening, shed its soothing influence upon the mind of 
the younger of the parties, who replied to some re- 
mark his companion had made, — 

“ Yes, Terence; it is just as you say — I have suf- 
fered, no doubt, as much as most men, perhaps more 
than many — but what were religion worth, if it did 
not enable men to bear up against these things ? 
f Shall we receive good from the Lord’s hand, and 
shall we not also take evil?’ And I should be un- 
grateful, most ungrateful, if I did not acknowledge 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


193 


that of good l have had a large share. My success 
in India surpassed my most sanguine hbpes — my fa- 
ther’s debts are paid. I have a plentiful store of ru- 
pees wherewith to refit the old hall, when the present 
tenant’s lease expires. I enjoy, meanwhile, the un- 
purchaseable love of valuable friends. I have health, 
strength, and hope — and is it for me to repine ?” 

“ Master Henry,” replied Terence, “ Your humble 
friend would wish to see you married as you ought, 
I know Miss Isabella loves you ! A thousand lit- 
tle things will tell a looker on of woman’s love, 
that pass, perhaps, unnoticed by the man she loves. 
1 have seen the color mount in her face, and her eye 
sparkle, when she met you in the park. I have seen 
her cheek grow pale as ashes, and the tears start, 
when she heard that your horse had fallen under you. 
When your name has been mentioned, I have seen 
how she listened to each word, although she would 
not join — not she ! in any conversation concerning 
you. I had not many opportunities of noticing theso 
things, and yet, few as they were, I couldn’t be blind 
to her affection for you. But — save us all !” exclaim- 
ed Terence, abruptly turning round, “ what imperial 
equipage of all the Russias can this be-?” " 

O’Sullivan looked about, and paused, as a sumptu- 
ous cortege approached at a moderate trot. Four no- 
ble black horses drew a carriage appointed with the 
stately magnificence, of which one beholds such a la- 
vish display in the streets of Vienna on levee days. 
A shield with its manifold quarterings was splendidly 
blazoned on the panels, displaying all the colors of 
the rainbow — red lions ramped on a field or — speck- 
led lions pranced on a field azure — carniverous birds 
and pugnacious beasts occupied their various com- 
partments ; and the whole menagerie of pictured 
monsters was encircled with the concentric collars of 
half a dozen orders from which were suspended a me- 
dal or two, with devices and legends, just as rational 
as the parti-colored hieroglyphics on the shield. The 
whole was surmounted with a foreign coronet. 

O’Sullivan faced about, as the equipage approach* 

VOL. II. 17 


194 


THE HUS HAND-HUNTER. 


ed ; but what was his surprise, when it suddenly stop- 
ped as it reached the part of the road where he stood, 
and forth peeped the well known face of the quondam 
Mrs. Mersey ! 

“ Ah, Mr. O’Sullivan !” exclaimed her highness, 
“I am truly delighted to see you. I recognized your 
figure at once. Are you going to Knockanea V ’ 

“ Yes,” replied O’Sullivan, surprised at the abrupt- 
ness of the query. 

“Then allow me to give you a seat 1 am going 
there, too, and I shall probably remain some months. 
My son,” pursued the princess, taking Adolph from 
the hands of his German nurse, who occupied the op- 
posite seat, “ what do you think of him ?” 

“A fine, stout, healthy-looking little fellow,” said 
O’Sullivan, who had by this time entered the carriage, 
which was once more in motion. 

“ They say he resembles his poor father,” said the 
widow, with a sigh ; “ however, I confess I do not see 
the likeness. — I cannot tell you,” she added, after a 
slight pause, “ how much it, has tended to allay the 
recent fever of my spirits, to find myself once more 
upon my native soil. Ah, Ireland 1 dear Ireland ! 
with all the desagremens of politics and poverty, there 
is no country in the world in which I could be half so 
happy !” 

This burst of patriotic fervor was well and natural- 
ly spoken, and O’Sullivan felt pleased to hear the sen- 
timent expressed by his lively companion. 

“I assure you, my kind, good friend,” resumed the 
widow, “that I deem it exceedingly fortunate to meet 
you at the present juncture — in fact, I stand much in 
need of your advice and assistance. Our sentiments, 
you know, so perfectly coincide, regarding the social 
condition of the country, and the evils that oppress it, 
that I feel assured I may command your aid in any 
effort to alleviate the misfortunes that afflict any por- 
tion of the people.” 

“Undoubtedly,” replied O’Sullivan, “ I shall feel 
much honored. — I wonder now,” thought he, “what 
this sly widow can be at. I never was aware that her 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


195 


sympathy with the peasant population was a promi- 
nent feature in her character. — Upon my honor, if I 
were a vain man, I should say that she was trying to 
engage my affections by flattering my political prefer- 
ences — she ’s assuredly at something , however, if I 
could only make out what it is ; — top-sawyer that she 
is, she never speaks without an object !” 

“ It has pleased Providence,” resumed the widow, 
“ to endow me with considerable wealth ; and deem- 
ing it an imperative duty to expend that wealth for the 
benefit of Ireland and her sons, I have quitted Germa- 
ny and come to my native country, simply and solely 
to discharge the obligations of my conscience. Now, 

I have seen in yesterday’s papers, that three estates 
are advertised for sale. If you can procure a . trusty 
friend or two, to watch the progress of the sales, and 
try if there be any danger of Tories becoming the 
purchasers, I should authorise your friend to avert that 
calamity by bidding in my name. I shall certainly 
purchase land in Ireland ; and if I could secure the 
additional advantage of ousting a Tory from the pur- 
chase, I should deem myself eminently fortunate. 
They coerce the voters’ consciences so cruelly !” 

This all sounded delightfully, no doubt ; but O’Sul- 
livan had so long been accustomed to associate the 
idea of dexterous trick with all the widow’s words and 
deeds, that he placed no very implicit faith in her 
present declarations, and contented himself with ex- 
pressing his sense of the necessity of raising the con- 
dition of the peasantry, wherever it was possible. 

“ Well,” added she, “ why don’t you cordially pro- 
mise to assist me ? Iam anxious, as anxious as you 
can be, t© perform my part of the duty, and all I 
want is the co-operation of a sympathetic and intelli- 
gent friend. That friend, Mr. O’Sullivan, I had flat- 
tered myself I might hope to meet in you.” 

“ Your highness may rely on my most active assis- 
tance.” 

“ In truth,” resumed the princess, “ our friend Lord 
Ballyvallin has been heretofore a sad, sad delinquent. 
I am told, however, his political asperity has of late 


196 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


been very much mitigated. Ah, how tragical was the 
fate of poor, poor Jerry Howlaghan ! Jerry was a 
very particular favorite of mine. The crime for 
which he suffered, clearly arose from the workings of 
the accursed ejectment system ! what a hideous con- 
dition of society, when landlords combine to extermi- 
nate the natives of the soil ! — Can you tell me what 
has become of Jerry’s sister? She was a very charm- 
ing girl.” 

“ She is now at Castle Kavanagh, where Miss Ka- 
vanagh has given her an asylum.” 

“ Could I possibly coax her away from Isabella ? or 
could I possibly induce Isabella to part with her?” 

“ Indeed I scarcely think you could,” replied O’Sul- 
livan ; “ they are very much attached to each other.” 

“Perhaps,” said the widow, with a very significant 
glance, “ you might have interest enough with Isabel- 
la to accomplish this ?” 

O’Sullivan stood the glance with countenance un- 
moved, and merely answered, “I do not think I 
should.” 

“ Not touched, I see,” thought her highness, draw- 
ing a rapid conclusion from O’Sullivan’s composure of 
countenance ; “ no danger to apprehend from that 
quarter.” 

She continued to converse on such subjects as af- 
forded her the best opportunity of expressing a flat- 
tering conformity of sentiment with her auditor ; 
praised the Kavanaghs ; praised “ her eccentric old 
friend,” Father John O’Connor ; praised Colonel Nu- 
gent ; mimicked Madden and his wife to admiration — 
abused Fitzroy Mordaunt, lamented his unprovided 
death, and shed tears as she dwelt in detail upon cer- 
tain recollections of the Howlaghans. It was all very 
naturally done ; but O’Sullivan could only regard it 
as excellent acting ; acknowledging, however, to him- 
self, as she glided without effort from subject to sub- 
ject, “ from grave to gay, from lively to severe — 
from tragedy to melodrameand even to farce, that the 
widow well merited her old reputation, of being the 
most agreeable woman in the province of Munster. 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


t97 


In very little more than an hour, they arrived at 
Knockanea. 

“ Ah, my sweet Jacintha !” said the princess, “ I 
shall miss her sadly — I had a letter from her, asking 
me to pass some time at the Schloss-Leschenhaus ; 
but just at that period, poor Prince Gruffenhausen 
met with his melancholy fate, and I resolved on re- 
maining no longer in Germany than was absolutely 
necessary for the legal arrangement of my affairs.” 

O'Sullivan cast one more glance at the carriage, 
ere he followed the princess into the house. 

“ Well now,” thought he, “ I should never have 
suspected the widow of traveling about in such a con- 
cern as that — it is so — so very Lord Mayorish a sort 
of equipage — even the vrowtchsk would, I think, 
have been in better taste.” 

CHAPTER XXV. 

Giles. — Well now, I’ll e’en step over to the younker, and hear what he 
says upon the matter, before I take any further steps. 

The Little Broker of Milan. 

“What!” exclaimed Kavanagh,"one day that he 
rode over to Knockanea, about a fortnight after the 
widow’s arrival, — “so I find, O’Sullivan, that you are 
her highness’s factotum, and arrange the purchase of 
her estates, and drive the little, humble, modest, un- 
pretending dogcart, in which she and you are so so- 
ciably employed day after day, tete-a-tete-ing it to- 
gether ?” 

“It is perfectly true,” said O’Sullivan. 

“ Hah ! and have you any notion of reigning as 
king-consort at Krunks-Doukerstein ?” 

“ No — I cannot say that her highness’s account of 
the necessary etiquette there, holds out much tempta- 
tion to a plain man like myself.’ 

“ Oh, but you might improve the etiquette,” return- 
ed Kavanagh, laughing ; “ at all events, in the article 
17 * 


198 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


of presentations, you might instruct your courtiers to 
suppress t he newspaper recounts of the solemn and 
important occasions from which their presentations 
would appear to arise. For example, it would be no 
great loss if the public did not read such statements as 
the following — ‘ At the levee on Tuesday, Colonel 
Klinkenberg was presented by Count Weysselkraft, 
on the occasion of his having purchased a magnifi- 
cent gold snuff-box — or, ‘General Von Bufferstein 
presented by Baron Aldershof, on the occasion of his 
having recovered the diamond-headed cane which 
was stolen from his town-house five years ago . 9 — 
Now, I submit, that the connection of cause and effect 
does not seem very clearly to exist between the pre- 
sentations in the cases quoted, and the purchase of 
the snuff-box, or the recovery of the- lost cane. But 
at this I cannot wonder ; for the same sublime obscu- 
rity pervades the presentation lists of greater courts 
than even that of Krunks-Doukerstein. And you 
won't , you say, play ‘ the prince in petticoat strings ?’ ” 

“ Why, the question assumes that I could if I pleas- 
ed, and I see not on what grounds you assume the 
possibility . 99 

“ Simply on the grounds of the dogcart tete-a-t§tes, 
which you have not denied, and the widow's selection 
of you as her ‘active sympathetic friend .* 99 

“ And do you not suppose that there may be abun- 
dance of ‘ active sympathetic friendship,’ without its 
necessarily implying a matrimonial denoument V 9 

“ With many, perhaps, it might exist — with the 
widow it is scarcely possible. Tell me, honestly, Hen- 
ry, what is the true state of the case ?” 

“The true slate of the case, then, is this, — that her 
highness expressed the most ardent desire to benefit 
the tenants on the Carrigbrack estates, which were for 
sale, and engaged my assistance to see that they did 
not pass into the hands of some scourging, exterminat- 
ing saint, who would have served ejectments by the* 
score in the desecrated name of the Almighty. — To 
be perfectly candid, I at first entertained some doubts 
of the agreeable dowager’s sincerity, and met her pro- 


THE HUSBAND-IIUNTER. 


199 


positions with cautious incredulity. She quickly dis- 
pelled my unbelief, however, by placing in my hands 
a draft on her bankers for the necessary purchase-mo- 
ney. It seemed an excellent thing for the tenantry ; 
and of course, as in duty bound, I rendered my most 
‘ active, sympathetic’ assistance.” 

“ Beyond all doubt,” returned Kavanagh, “she has 
a design on your heart. The attack is very cleverly 
| managed — affectation of political sympathy, and so 
forth. — You know she pretended to poor Gruffenhau- 
sen that she firmly believed in every one of his crack- 
brained Rosicrucian fancies ; and they tell some 
strange tale of her personating the heroine of a dream, 
or some such tiling. — Well, now — and suppose in so- 
ber earnest that she is making an attack upon your 
heart, which I do conclude to be the fact — what 
would you think of the affair? If she marries you, it 
manifestly must be for love, not for either rank or 
wealth — and it probably will be almost the first dis- 
interested thing she ever did in all her life.” 

“ She is certainly a very companionable personage,” 
replied O’Sullivan, “ and pretty enough, too. She is 
about a year my senior, though — a man should be 
older than his wife. — But what nonsense is all this ! 
I do not, I cannot believe that she really has any de- 
signs upon me — you may rely upon it she has higher 
game in view, if we only could guess what it is; and 
she condescends to make use of me in working out 
Iter plans. 1 am willing enough to be employed, as I 
find I can really benefit the poor people.” 

“ But if she iiad no personal views upon you” an- 
swered Kavanagh, “ she might have easily engaged the 
-assistance of some knowing attorney, experienced in 
the sale of estates, who might have made a better bar- 
gain for her.” 

As Kavanagh spoke, the door opened, and the 
Princess Gruffenhausen entered. With a graceful 
start of astonishment, and a smile of satisfaction, she 
approached him, and extended both her hands with 
the utmost cordiality. “I am truly delighted to 
see you, my excellent friend,” quoth her highness, — 


200 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


“ and how is my dearest Isabella? You were ex- 
tremely naughty that you did not bring her. — Now, 
the deuce take the old sly fox !” thought the widow ; 
“ he probably fancies that his niece has excited a 
flame in O’Sullivan, and he fears it may expire in the 
warmer atmosphere of my attractions ; so here he 
comes, to apply his patent calorifere to the heart of 
the stray sheep ! — I place you at once on your de- 
fence, Mr. Kavanagh, and I ask you what possible ex- 
cuse you can set up, for not having made Isabella ac- 
company you? Did you, or did you not, know that 
I was here ?” 

“ I must acknowledge that I did,” replied the ac- 
cused. 

“ Well— true magnanimity is ever ready toforgive 
— to-morrow I shall show you how magnanimous I 
am, by going to see Isabella immediately after break- 
fast ; and Mr. O’Sullivan, I hope, will accompa- 
ny me,” she added, looking inquiringly at Hen- 
ry, who bowed acquiescence. “ I shall thus,” thought 
she, “ acquire the advantage of seeing him with Isa- 
bella, and of learning from actual inspection, if he has 
any foolish notions m that quarter. I shall see if his 
heart ignites from a contact with that very combusti- 
ble young lady.” 

On the following day the widow put her project into 
execution ; but the manner of O’Sullivan, in Isabel- 
la's presence, left her practised discernment complete- 
ly at fault. There had been once, a time, when the 
mention of Lucinda’s name would make his heart 
throb faster, and send the young blood rushing to his 
face; but his heart was now less easily affected, and 
his blood habitually circulated in a somewhat less ex- 
citable current than in days of yore. His manner to 
Isabella was that of a much attached friend : it was, 
doubtless, susceptible of another construction ; but the 
widow was too w^ary and experienced to rely implicit- 
ly on any equivocal appearances. 

She had much stronger cause for alarm, when 
O’Sullivan said, during the homeward tete-a-tete in 
the dog-cart, — 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


201 


“ My stay at Knockanea expires to-morrow. ’’ 

“ To-morrow 1” she repeated, and her visage sud- 
denly blanked. “ To-morrow I and where do you 
then purpose going ?” 

“ To Castle Kavanagh,” he answered ; “you know 
it is my home until my tenant surrenders Bally Sulli- 
van. ” 

“ Could not 1 induce you to prolong your stay at 
Knockanea ?” she asked, half reproachfully, half ten- 
derly. 

“If,” he answered, in a hesitating manner, “you 
think I can be of any further use to you — that is, if 
you wish to offer for the Barrybeg estate, or — or ” 

“O’Sullivan,” said the widow, with deep and mel- 
ancholy emphasis, bending her large black eyes full 
upon his face. Poor Henry was rather taken aback 
by this stunning appeal. He, however, awaited the 
result with composure. 

“ Is it possible, Mr. O’Sullivan, that you can mis- 
understand me ?” 

“ I — I believe not,” said he ; “I conceived that a 
desire to serve our persecuted countrymen induced 
you to require my assistance.” 

“ And so far you were perfectly right. But will 
you — trill you put my delicacy to the cruel necessity 
of telling you, in words, what I hoped my manner had 

rendered sufficiently explicit ? That a woman 

should thus speak is unusual, and the effort is intense- 
ly painful ; yet why should the other sex monopolize 
the right to declare the affections of their hearts? Do 
not we feel as acutely — do we not love as tenderly, as 
faithfully, as truly ? and shall they alone have liberty 
to tell their feelings, while we are doomed to iron si- 
lence? My incomparable friend, it was from you that 
I learned to appreciate the just claims of the persecuted 
peasantry of Ireland. Your eloquent appeals in their 
behalf, first dispelled the mist of prejudice in which I 
had been educated. I deemed myself thrice happy, 
when, in the self-same act, I could at once demonstrate 
the sincerity with which I embraced your opinions — 
cast the shield of my protection over hundreds of the 


202 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


peasantry, and — shall I own it ] enjoy the delightful 
co-operation of a valued friend, in whom I had long 
felt a deep, an affectionate interest ?” 

“ Bless me ! how very flattering !” said poor O’Sul- 
livan, quite overwhelmed. 

“ You seem surprised that it should be so,” resum- 
ed her highness ; “ may I ask you wherefore?” 

“ Because — because — in fact, it astonishes me that 
the same person could admire both Prince Gruffen- 
hausen and myself — we are so totally dissimilar in 
every respect.” 

“ Cruel, cruel man !” exclaimed her highness ; 
“ will you force me, compel me, to acknowledge, that 
I married the prince in a fit of despair at your cold- 
ness ?” 

61 At my coldness !” repeated O’Sullivan, thun- 
derstruck. 

“ Yes — for my manner was ever as unequivocal as 
the limits of propriety permitted, and must have been 
perfectly intelligible to any man with a spark more of 
vanity than you had. But of all men breathing, there 
exists not one so totally destitute of vanity as you ! 
Oh, Henry, I found it impossible to thaw your icy 
frigidity ! I saw, I felt, that beneath the ice you had 
a heart, and a warm heart. But I learned, by acci- 
dent, your engagement with Lucinda Nugent. I felt 
as though my doom were sealed, on receiving the in- 
telligence. To attempt to interfere with her early 
claim on your affections had been base. Of such base- 
ness I trust I have ever been incapable. My brain 
felt on fire — I could not blame you for your undeviat- 
ing chillness towards myself, when I ascertained that 
your heart — alas, how ill-requited ! was bestowed up- 
on Lucinda. Months passed, my torturing delirium 
still continued, when Prince Gruffenhausen offered his 
hand. Scarcely knowing what I said or did, I acqui- 
esced — the connexion gave me wealth, and rank, and 
influence. I offer now to share with you these ad- 
vantages — and, oh ! Henry — it is with a throbbing 
bosom I await your answer.” 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTEll. 


203 


“ Dear madam,” replied Henry, “ I am obliged — * 

excessively obliged indeed — but ” 

“ Whip on the horses, Sir !” said the widow tartly. 
“ It is enough that you refuse the offer of sincere af- 
fection. I shall not degrade myself by hearing any 
further explanation.’’ 

O’Sullivan had with difficulty refrained from laugh- 
ing outright, when her highness endeavored with such 
perfect sang froid , to persuade him that she had es- 
poused the hairy Fatalist in a fit of disappointment 
at his coldness. But he now saw with pain and em- 
barrassment that tears were quickly falling from the 
widow’s eyes ; although he was in doubt whether their 
fountain existed in a wounded heart, or injured pride. 

“ Believe me,” said he, in a tone of great sweet- 
ness, “ that I am penetrated with the deepest sense of 
your undeserved kindness ; and I feel at this moment 
unaffected pain — if I called it anguish, I should scarce- 
ly exaggerate — at the cruel predicament that prevents 
my returning, as it merits, the flattering warmth with 
which you have honored me. With the friendliest 

interest— the sincerest regard, I shall ever ” 

“ Whip on the horses, Sir !” interrupted the widow, 
mastering her emotion with a violent effort. O’Sulli- 
van obeyed, and spoke not ; and their unsociable si- 
t lence continued until they arrived at Knockanea. 

O’Sullivan immediately sought out Lord Ballyvallin, 
to whom he bade farewell, pleading urgent business 
, as the cause of his instant departure. He judged it 
prudent to avoid another interview with the Princess 
| Gruffenhausen ; and mounting his horse, retraced his 
road with all possible speed to castle Kavanagh. 

“ My poor dear friend the widow !” thought he, 
“ how unlucky that I cannot return her affection ! 
Though even at this moment, — so strong is my impres- 
pression of the delusion and chicanery she is capable 
of practising, — I am far from being satisfied that it is 
I not all sham, from top to bottom ! But there is neith- 
! er trick nor chicane about Isabella Kavanagh — some 
I time or other I suppose I shall marry — and 1 do not 
I see where I could suit myself better. Terence says she 


204 


THE HUSBAND-HUNTER. 


loves me, and I do believe he is right — I have seen 
some symptoms of a preference — I shall quickly put 
it to the test.” 

And forthwith he offered his hand to the blushing 
fair one, whose smile of kindly confidence and fond 
affection, was but the earnest of the enduring happi- 
ness her good sense and even temper have ever since 
diffused around her husband’s fireside. 

“ She has got ihe Boar’s head for her crest, after 
all,” exclaimed Terence O’Leary, charmed at the reali- 
zation of his long cherished wish. “ May the ould 
motto now be applicable, * Sit Jidelis semper felix ” 

Lord Ballyvallin read the intelligence of the nup- 
tials aloud, one morning, from the county paper. 

“ Alas !” thought the widow, “ 1 am baulked — fair- 
ly baulked ! I must have played my cards badly some- 
where ; — never man escaped me before, but Baron 
Leschen, and that was merely because I did not take 
sufficient time to noose him properly : — I could cer- 
tainly have had him, if I had waited. But to think 
that Henry O’Sullivan should have escaped me ; — 
Henry, wdiose manner seemed to indicate such artless 
simplicity ! Upon my honor, it is unaccountable ! 
But I hope he may enjoy every happiness with Isabel- 
la, and I know Isabella must be happy. Who could 
be otherwise with Henry ? May felicity attend them 
both ! A woman w ho, like me, has snared four hus- j 
bands, can afford to be generous to a girl wffio*has 
springed only one . — Heigho ! I really think that hence- 
forth I shall speculate no more in matrimony.” 

The widow was as good as her word. She retired 
from the arduous field of amatory rivalry, leaving its 
“ hard-foughten fights” to be contested by younger 
competitors. She returned, with Adolph, to Krunks- 
Doukerslein, where she now presides with absolute 
authority, a model of interesting and dignified dow- ] 
agerhood. 





















































































* V- 


y / V * A 

1 A * S A\ 


ry <, & 


' y^ y o * \ " js 


G>. 


0 


\ 


o o 


,CV c° N c * ^ ' ** ’ / ’ * , 

K — i" 9 (l ^ ^ x £■■' '-\ •? 

Vo s. -/» s. * .Oo * v* _>•• ••-■ * , ■ 

r° .v r y2zMW ^ v ■*■ - => a5 ’U- H 

« ^ *. *,^^* o o n V^^V A ^1 

V •<.' * °r > ' ,Q V s'” r,,^C> N v' ^*’' i 




* * 

_ "V^-f C / 0 \V t/ 1 U eo C, A' 

' ky*F -\ . «** * ^ 2* -A \X V ^ 




-f 



/ . * S ^ ^ * 0 , x * ^ v C y * 

r <y c 0 N c * <3^ 

JT> I 

§§§|fef ; ,>b o x ^ v * 

'V ,..„% /* .:-•,/ S ,>r;f4f ™ 

V A - v * 3^ * . A> 

* ■ f ^>mCm, * <$' .v, ^ rS\ a» r * 




x° <2* * «*p* => 

=a ^- v®m 

* 7 <T* S S A ^ J o * \ ,6 "V / ' , s ^ ■ 

X” x 0 ®,. *«l^- 05 ++ x°°- r 

v! > ♦ o :v * •■ - 


^ i 




* * r 0 ^ 

>V v ^ C ^> r 63 5, - 

* ■ N - z 

, ^, . * <, V* 

> * ^ ^ -A oX' 

^ y 0 , V * ,0^ , 

^b. 0^ c 0 N c * <e 

* ° ^ ^ 




Deacidified using the Bookkeeper proces 
Neutralizing Agent: Magnesium Oxide 


Treatment Date: 


■p. 




1996 


Cb 3 ^bp bmj 


u \i pp 
JgL s® &s 


PRESERVATION TECHNOLOGIES, INC 
1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Twp., PA 16066 
(412)779-2111 





V. / >> * S ,\ 

5* t z> 


V 


OO 


<^_ i- 


/, s s * 5 N ° 5 / ^.'‘• 0 /% * • 1 1 * V° O'" 

* „ X f'T^ . r <? 3 * * _ A V * 

.V * i\W 4 " ^ /» * ^ 

. rlW ^ //l, - ^ 



* V'^’V^ ^ -? %sg$t* ** ">+ 

^ '»•'■■* - 1 ° 0 S C C ,\ X ll8 %. 'o.** 

> V A° 1 «, ^ a* v* 1 /_*.. *<?, ,0 




. o. .<y c u ' u * '«*> vfc’ , * v ‘ 0 * 'o 

% 0 . °V^w- v * 0 

»: w „ : wl&'. •" v w 

0 0 o> ^ " ^ \° °^. * 

> \x> ^ * ^y/JW * ' + . 

* <^V, *- -\ n ,0 O ^ u. 

\ X Y . o *n>* 4 . » , %, * 0 H 0 ’ A V 

v *- 0 1 ' SS- o \> ,.* * 

^ y •vstei' ^ ^ * 

Z - J V^>7 ^ ^ Z %X/7 




* oV 


,v 


, _ - ^ % -- 

** /V*^ % 0 ^ . 

r. ^ v* *£ftir>\ W »«w 

A ^ # >.t - ^<<A„ * * & 



* <1 s 




,A 




" . 0 ° _ * 0 *** 7 *'' y % 

$>' s s \Y ' '> / C‘ V> %' * « , 

^ # . 


=» C, -<^. 

< ^ 7 . y 0 « K * ^0 v 

’ - o° v ^11 >. ^ 

- O0 x 




■ y % *• 

V * s * 0 r > 

^ #5 5 l ^ _. x ^ 

* A\^/> 'o ^ y j 

« cV\\W-w//A '/ ^ 0 

; ^ C. . , 


> \ 


>5 "U 



<X v 

; x 0c ^. * 

■'■ .o 0 C o'' i '^V^ ^ 
y 0 ’’A,''' Q - 1 N " v x% 0 - ^ * 0 

+*. .v, r 

•v 



A>' ' P .f. o 

_ 'V ■*> ,, >v ^ v> 

o s ' r*> + ^ «v 

^V, X/ •' « « ^ S \ I B . '\+ y 0 * ^ xj 4 ^ 1 * ft 

^ .^ V .0 : ^ - °o o° » c JL % % 




0 °<. 

y> ^ 1 \\^ > vV- ’'^f- j, 

s a 1 C~* y o 1 



« ! A _N. 

O x s 





